


Sea-Change

by susiecarter



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Extra Treat, IN SPACE!, Identity Reveal, Idiots in Love, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 00:16:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11657664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: When the pirate shipAljanahappens across a wreck in the depths of f-space, Captain Marouane takes it upon himself to rescue the lone survivor: a deck apprentice of the Lourguinnais merchant marine, one M. Bouchard. Bouchard is self-righteous, judgmental, argumentative—and profoundly attractive, damn him. It is far too easy to become excessively attached to him; and while he may not be a pirate, that does not mean he is not a liar, and it does not mean he is not keeping some particularly important secrets.





	Sea-Change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prinzenhasserin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/gifts).



> So, uh, this was sort of an accident—your request caught my eye, and then I read your letter and your likes list was basically all my favorite things (odd couples! cultural and philosophical differences! rescues! competence! identity shenanigans! gray morality! UNVERBALIZED AFFECTION), and for this pairing in particular you talked about SPACE and PRIVATEERING and DANGER/CONFLICT but REDEEMABILITY and I don't know, I sort of threw all those things together and shook them and ... a plot fell out? *mimes helplessness* And for a story that mostly happens on a pirate ship, there's basically zero piracy. IDEK.
> 
> SO. I can only apologize for the length. And also for the sentence structure, since I probably took Age-of-Sail pastiche a little too far here. /o\ I hope very much that you enjoy this, Prinzenhasserin, and have a great RMSE!
> 
>  **ETA:** Now with not one but TWO lovely pieces of art [here](http://thecornerofthemoon.tumblr.com/post/164341282734/acts-of-sailing-sketch-for-sea-change-by) and [here](http://thecornerofthemoon.tumblr.com/post/164341207459/art-for-sea-change-by-susiecarter-go-read-it), by the wonderfully generous [strawberrymilano](http://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrymilano/pseuds/strawberrymilano)/[thecornerofthemoon](http://thecornerofthemoon.tumblr.com)! LOOK, LIKE, REBLOG, PLEASE AND THANK YOU. ♥

 

 

"A sail!"

Amaïr turned and looked overhead, up into the forward sensor bay. From the main deck he could see nothing unusual—only the dark rippling of the fluvium around them, ghostly suggestions of colour brightening into prominence here and there and then fading away again. But Guellec had her eye to the sensor-glass, a display projecting for her all that _Aljana_ 's acoustic array could detect, and her voice was sharp and wary.

"A sail," she said again, squinting into the glass. "At least—I think it is a sail."

Amaïr raised an eyebrow, even though she would not see it. "Is it a sail or isn't it?"

"A moment, Captain," Guellec said, and with a touch to the instrument panel refined the focus of the array. "I can read no colours yet."

Amaïr frowned. That was strange indeed.

Ships' colours were not colours, not here in the deepest fathoms of f-space; fluvium had too much density, too much substance, for a visual signal to be of any utility. But the ancient term had carried over to the use of acoustics—any ship asail was required to project a sound-pattern of regulation frequency, to identify herself and her allegiance. And if Guellec could catch the acoustic reflection of a sail, they should be well in range to read the colours—

"The _Audacieux_. Lourguinnais," Guellec said grimly, and Amaïr would have teased her for her tone except he looked up again and saw her face.

"A wreck," he said, and Guellec looked down and met his eyes and did not disagree.

And of course it was a wreck—that made sense of it all. The sail had been separated from the hull, cast away into the fluvium, and so Guellec had sighted it before whatever else was left of the ship had come in range. Amaïr glanced down and checked the readings coming off _Aljana_ 's fins.

"To port?"

"To port," Guellec agreed.

They were distant yet, it was not more than a vague inclination of the fins to pull portside—but any captain sailing f-space knew to be wary of a strong current. Fluvium had a mass all its own; it dragged together into eddies, swells, whirlpools, and could accumulate sudden and terrible gravities that would dissipate again within the hour.

And if there were any other readings, Guellec would have said so. But nevertheless Amaïr could not stop himself from asking. "Any beacon?"

"Not the ship's," Guellec said. "There is another sail, I think—a three-core vessel, she must have been, and the third sail now gone, or further off. Another sail, and the hull looks to have been torn in half by the swell. It must have been very sudden, and high-g. If there was a beacon, it was likely crushed."

Amaïr grimaced. Everyone on the main deck was watching him, but that was all right—it did not matter if they saw. It was a terrible thing, to stumble across a wreck like this, and as deep as they were; it could not help but make a sailor think of what it would be to die in such a crush, a whole ship crying out with no one to hear through the dark. Better to acknowledge it and set it aside, and not pretend he alone was somewise immune.

He was about to tell Guellec to come back down to the deck, that they would go a little to port if that was where the current took them and that if it did not look too bad they would see what there was to be salvaged. And then Guellec startled a little and leaned in toward the glass, and said, "Captain—there is something else."

"A sailor's beacon?" If only someone had made it to a suit in time, to a suit and to some part of the ship that was still whole; the odds were hard against it, but it was not impossible—

"A sailor's," Guellec confirmed, because she was able to tell. It would read higher-pitched and softer to _Aljana_ 's array, distinct from a ship's own more powerful main beacon-call.

Amaïr turned to gaze out at nothing—because the _Audacieux_ still was not visible to the unaided eye—and found himself grinning, fierce, and above him he heard Guellec sigh a little.

Because Guellec had been with him a long time, and surely knew what he was about to say.

"Well, then! Whoever it is, we shall have to fetch the lucky fellow safely away."

"Captain—"

"Oh, come, we may be thieves and carrion-crows, but we are not without mercy—"

"Captain, I do not object to the principle, only to the practice," Guellec said, "because I know very well you will insist on doing it yourself. And I must protest, even though I also know very well you will not listen."

"Indeed I will not," Amaïr said cheerfully, which made everyone on the upper deck nearest him smile; and then he turned on his heel and went to suit up.

 

 

*

 

 

Once he had secured a breather mask and a tether, he caught a sailor passing in the corridor and had her run the airlock: flooding it gradually with fluvium, until the outer hatch could be safely cycled without damage from the pressure. The tether was standard, ten cables long, which was equivalent to a single fluvial mile—safe distance from a shipwreck, by Lourguinnais regulation.

Though of course Lourguinnais regulation did not have all that many adherents aboard _Aljana_.

Swimming out was easy. The current was not as bad as it must have been when it had caught the _Audacieux_ , but there was still some density to what remained of the swell—some density and thereby some gravity, and so Amaïr's every movement toward it had a certain feeling of going downhill.

The _Audacieux_ was at first nothing but a shadow somewhere within the fluvium; and then gradually her lines and edges began to resolve their way clear; and then all at once the whole torn-up wreck of her was right there, looming over him out of the darkness. His chest felt tight, his breath coming hard—and he could tell himself that it was only the density, the fluvium heavy around him, but that did not make it true. There was no way to be certain, and yet he felt, looking at her, as though he could follow the sequence of it: there was the crumpling along the edge of the hull where gravity had caught the ship and crushed so powerfully inward; and there, there was the seam along the hull opposite that had given way and let the _Audacieux_ tear open along her length. There was a fixture for a sail, and there—and in the distance, if he swung around, he thought he could see one of the lost sails glimmering.

A light-sail was essential to any ship that meant to travel f-space for any real distance. Amaïr was no engineer, but as he understood it, it was some fantastical electromagnetic property of fluvium that generated those brief lovely flares of light amidst its dimness—and light-sails could profit by the same. By the look of her, the _Audacieux_ had indeed had three, just as Guellec had implied: one to charge each of her three drive-cores. Standard design for light Lourguinnais frigates.

But a sail could become a hazard in a moment, if it was fully extended when a swell rose up. Caught in the grip of a fluvial current or a gravitational surge, a sail that could not be secured properly could render it near impossible for a ship to make her escape.

And perhaps whoever it was whose beacon was now pinging away in Amaïr's comm had been attempting to forestall that very eventuality, for the closer Amaïr swam, the clearer it became that the signal was sung out from an airlock.

The perfect place to be, Amaïr supposed, if fate should give one the opportunity to pick. Airlocks were, after all, specially fortified to withstand sudden changes in fluvial pressure very close by, and anyone intending to depart one would presumably already have a suit and a breather mask to hand. That would improve the odds of survival in such a scenario considerably.

He came up beside what was left of the airlock; the fluvium wished to draw him still further, off toward the most cruelly-twisted wale of the _Audacieux_ , but it did not take more than a firm hand against the edge of the hatch to maintain his position.

The airlock had been breached in the end—which was for the best, as there was no longer any power running to its hatches, and Amaïr would not have been able to get inside it otherwise. The shear that had torn through it at one side was large enough for him to edge his way through without much risk of a rip in his suit; and, yes: there. There was the dim gleam of a breather mask.

The fellow wearing it was limp, but there was still a fog of breath against its inner surface—not gone yet, then, and he would not go at all if Amaïr had anything to say about it. It was not difficult to guide him gently through the gash in the side of the airlock, and Amaïr trusted his own grip well enough but still took the time to maneuver a length of tether through the hooks at the waist of the fellow's suit, feeling each separately in the darkness to confirm that they had locked. Surely this lad had used up all his good luck for today; he did not have any to spare to make up the difference, if Amaïr were careless with him now.

So: Amaïr was not careless. And it all went very well as a result, at least until they had covered about half the distance to _Aljana_.

Then the lad came to.

Amaïr did not hear it—their comms were not linked, after all, and fluvium carried array signals well enough but was not nearly so accommodating to the human ear; anything that did not come through a comm was low and strange and muffled at the absolute best.

But he could _feel_ it perfectly well, for the lad woke with a flail that tugged sharply on the tether where Amaïr had been towing him along by it. Amaïr turned and caught a glimpse of wild eyes, opened wide and fiercely green, and the lad fumbling clumsily at his own waist—trying to work out what it was that gripped him there, Amaïr had time to think, and then the lad flailed again and Amaïr caught a very solid knee to the jaw.

The breather mask—that was what was most important. If the tether came free, the lad would probably not drift so far that Amaïr could not catch up to him again; and it would take nimbler fingers than the lad appeared to have at his disposal to remove the suit. But if in his disorientation, his panic, he tore off the breather mask—

Amaïr pushed off just far enough to avoid the boot that came at him next, and then caught the lad's ankle before it could whirl past him and grappled his way up the leg. He'd been blessed with long arms, and got a hand up to the lad's chin, the other to his shoulder, to hold the mask where it was; the lad struck him once by accident and then swung at him a second time in thoughtless fear, and Amaïr let go his shoulder to catch him by the wrist.

They could not speak, so Amaïr did not try. He kept his grip steady, firm but not tight, suggestive of restraint that could be broken in the hope that the lad would not feel himself trapped; and then he leaned in, close enough to press their breather masks together with a clunk, so the lad could not help but find Amaïr's eyes.

Which, after a moment, he did. Amaïr could almost see it when his mind began to clear: he stared at Amaïr at first as if he did not know what he was looking at, as if he could not parse what he saw before him into a man's face through a breather mask. And then he blinked once and again, and Amaïr could see his lips part behind the mask, drawing in a long slow breath and shakily letting it out. His brow furrowed, and he swallowed and then opened his mouth again as if to speak—but Amaïr shook his head, and after another moment's staring, the lad seemed to realise what he meant by it.

The furrow in the brow dug itself deeper, the lad glancing past Amaïr to _Aljana_ —which of course he did not recognise, for she was at a look identifiable as six-core at least, and therefore definitely not the _Audacieux_.

Amaïr hesitated for a moment, endeavouring to guess the odds that the lad would panic anew if he were shown. But he'd caught on quickly enough that he could not use his comm, after all; and those brilliant eyes were clear now, awake and aware.

So Amaïr kicked a little, tugged just so on the tether, and turned them, and then drew back enough to let the lad see the _Audacieux_.

He stared at it almost the same way he'd stared at Amaïr, as if it were a sight he could make no sense of; and then his eyes fell shut and his mouth went flat behind his mask, and Amaïr knew he understood—had added up whatever he remembered with all he could now see, and arrived at the approximate sum of things.

It was a hard thing, to survive one's ship and crew and captain.

But it was also a thing better wrestled with on the far side of an airlock. Amaïr gave the lad a moment and then squeezed his wrist to draw his attention, and, eyebrows raised, carefully let go of the breather mask—and the lad nodded to show he understood and made no move to yank it off of himself again.

The fluvium was against them, returning to _Aljana_ , but they had the tether; they pulled themselves along until they were close enough to be sure there was no obstruction or debris between them and the airlock, and then Amaïr raised Guellec on the comm and had the tether wound, so they were carried the rest of the way at the steady pace of the airlock winch.

The lad seemed perfectly able to climb into the airlock, and to stand inside it—until it was drained of fluvium, and Amaïr turned round and discovered the lad had gone down with the fluid level.

He was still awake; but only long enough to tug his breather mask loose and say, "Forgive me, sir, I am—I think I am stabbed," before his eyes rolled back in his head and he was away.

 

 

*

 

 

He certainly had been stabbed, as it turned out, though not quite through. Close to it: some sort of debris from the _Audacieux_ that had hurtled into the airlock when at last it gave way had gone into the lad's back, through the suit and nearly through a kidney.

"Lucky fellow," said Dr. Belcasim, shaking her head.

"Perhaps we had better name him that," Amaïr murmured.

"It struck him hard enough to pin the suit to his back, and he bled into what space was left and sealed it. He would have drowned in fluvium otherwise, well before you could ever have reached him."

"Lucky fellow indeed, then," Amaïr said.

Dr. Belcasim pursed her lips. "Yes, well," she said. "We shall see whether he thinks so, when he learns what ship has saved him."

"Surely he will be too glad to have been saved at all to care overmuch about who has done it," Amaïr suggested.

Dr. Belcasim did not look convinced. "Even if he is only a merchant sailor, he shall have reason aplenty to be wary," she said, "coming off a frigate out of Lourguinnais space to find himself on a ship called _Aljana_. He will not likely thank you."

"You cast aspersions on my honour, my good doctor," Amaïr said, affecting a look of mournful hurt. "I did not perform this errand of mercy and goodwill to be _thanked_. I should have you keelhauled."

"Mm," Dr. Belcasim agreed, uncowed. "Well, he responded very well to the regenerator, so there is no call to wait," and then she plucked a syringe from the vast collection she always seemed to have at hand, and jabbed the lad in the arm without delay.

" _Ah_ ," he said, coming round all at once; but sense was not so slow to return to him this time: he did not take a swing at Dr. Belcasim as he had at Amaïr.

"Good day," Amaïr said to him amiably, and when the lad glanced nervously around at the infirmary beds and Dr. Belcasim's syringes, it occurred to Amaïr to add, "You are all right. Or will be, in short order."

"I am glad to hear it," said the lad slowly, and he was not looking about him anymore but rather staring straight at Amaïr.

Amaïr waited, eyebrows raised, but the lad volunteered nothing else. "You had not the opportunity to give your name, in the airlock," he prompted at last.

The lad swallowed, and looked from Amaïr to Dr. Belcasim and back again. "Bouchard," he offered after a moment. "It is Bouchard—Matéo. A—deck apprentice; or I was, at least."

"Well, Bouchard," Amaïr said, and sketched a small bow. "It is my pleasure to welcome you aboard _Aljana_ ; I am Amaïr Marouane, her captain."

And Bouchard was no fool, not at all—Amaïr's name might not have been enough by itself, but that the ship bore a name that was not Lourguinnais in the least made up for any uncertainty. He had gone tense against the infirmary bed, gaze sharp on Amaïr's face, and Amaïr could not decide whether it was to Bouchard's credit or his detriment that he looked at a ship's captain that way and said so warily, "You are Digerién."

Amaïr smiled at him—slow, and without the least humor in it. "Jaziri," he corrected, and he kept his tone very soft and light, but was in some obscure way pleased to see that Bouchard did not relax at all.

No fool, Bouchard.

But then Bouchard did something he had not expected. "Jaziri," Bouchard repeated carefully, ducking his head a little. "My apologies—I will endeavour to remember, Captain."

And perhaps Amaïr should not have been surprised after all: Bouchard was in a very delicate position, was he not? A deck apprentice; the merchant marine, then, and no doubt he had signed himself on to crew the _Audacieux_ with stars—or fluvium flares—in his eyes. Only to find himself the sole survivor of a particularly cruel wreck, and plucked from the shattered remains of his vessel by a ship that he could clearly guess belonged to no navy at all.

"Come now," Amaïr said, more genially than before, and gentled his expression to match. "My ship's doctor has gone to some trouble to make you whole again, Bouchard! You have nothing to fear from me."

Bouchard did not relent; he tilted his chin up and said, "You are a pirate, sir. You must forgive me if I do not take your word for it."

"I have been called as much," Amaïr agreed, "and I suppose it is not so inaccurate a name. But you see, Bouchard, I understand you better than you think, and you must not believe I am without sympathy for your position."

Bouchard was now so tense against the bed that his knuckles and the angle of his jaw were standing out white. "Is that so, sir?" he said, very level.

"Oh, indeed," Amaïr assured him. "You have not been sailing long, I suppose? Forgive me if it is impolitic to say so: but deck apprentices start very young, usually, and you are no longer a boy. So you have not been sailing long, and yet you suffer the frightful bad luck to be wrecked and nearly killed and then snatched up by pirates. Anyone would be distressed, Bouchard; I will not count it against you."

Bouchard swallowed, and then, slowly, slowly, his hands eased at his sides, until they looked again like hands instead of knotted cables. "I confess you have the right of it, sir," he said, "or approximately so. You concede, then, that pirate is the word—you have no license, and are accountable to no one?"

"It is safe to say Lourguinne would not have us," Amaïr said, very dry, "were we to aspire to the respectable station of privateers; and I expect that were she presented with our heads on golden plates, the queen of Caspalia would accept them happily. But you may rest a little easier, Bouchard, for we are not revolutionaries either. Jazir commands no stronger hold over me or my crew than any other world."

But Bouchard did not look any easier, hearing it. He did sit up, then, and quit holding himself with such care; but it was only the better to frown at Amaïr, thunderous and disapproving. "But your name, sir—your ship—"

"I know where I am from," Amaïr agreed, "and you may know it also; what of it? Lourguinne, Caspalia, Jazir—they are all equally far from me, or may as well be, and care as little for me as I for them. You are Lourguinnais, but have not offered yourself up to bear arms or fight to the death in the emperor's name—" and Bouchard twitched a little at that, as though he felt he ought to argue the point even though he clearly could not— "and I am Jaziri and may say the same. I am a pirate because I find it a decent living, not because I burn with political sentiment that can find no other expression."

"And when you chase down a frigate," Bouchard snapped, "and rush aboard, to kill and thieve—"

Amaïr drew back, startled and not a little amused. "You air your opinions with decided frankness," he murmured, "considering you believe me a murderer. And I fear I must disappoint: it is my aim to kill no one, if I can help it at all. Lourguinnais or Caspiol, it would not matter; every navy vessel this side of the galactic core would be after me at once, if I had left the trail of blood you appear to imagine. And it would profit me little in any case, as the dead cannot be stolen from but the once—"

"But you will take the once and gladly—for it was not in samaritan spirit that you caught my beacon, I imagine, if you had marked the _Audacieux_ as fat enough for salvage, sir," Bouchard said hotly.

Amaïr closed his mouth and shook his head a little. He did not like to be set back on his heels, and had not made a habit of it; the sensation, unfamiliar and unwelcome, was not one that pleased him. "They went on their way with no help from us," he said after a moment, softly, "and I shall take this opportunity to remind you that you'd have gone on yours alongside them, if not for me."

And it was a small, mean satisfaction to him that Bouchard was forced to close his mouth as well, at that, and looked away from Amaïr at last.

"You will not touch her now, sir," Bouchard said quietly. "Please say you will not."

And what was Amaïr to do with that? As if he were not a sailor himself, as if he did not understand—as if he would laugh in Bouchard's face and go off with a smile and a song to pick over the bones of the _Audacieux_ —

But then he supposed Bouchard had no reason to think any better of him than that.

"I will not," Amaïr agreed, equally quietly; and then in a cheerier tone went on: "So let us call this little skirmish a draw, then, and move on to other matters. You may disapprove of me all you like, Bouchard, but _Aljana_ is my ship and I am her captain, and unless you would swim from here to a breach-gate, you shall be aboard her quite a while.

"You are a sailor, and I have no cause to think you served your last ship ill. So here is my proposition for you: work aboard _Aljana_ as you would aboard any other ship, and you shall eat and drink and berth as any other crewmember. We will dock at a starport sooner or later, and when we do you may take your leave of us and do as you please, and no harm done—"

"No harm," Bouchard echoed, with a sour little twist to the corner of his mouth. "I will not commit acts of piracy, sir—"

"And I will not force them upon you," Amaïr said, as patiently as he was able. "You need not besmirch yourself. I ask only that you commit acts of sailing, Bouchard; and I will swear to you on anything you like that if we land ourselves a prize along the way, you will not see a share of it. Does that please you?"

It was half a jest, or at least he had thought it would be; surely Bouchard was not so stubborn as to turn down a little gain, trapped as he was. But Bouchard lifted his chin again, and said sternly, "Indeed it does, Captain," and without further preamble put out his hand to shake, as though it were truly a gentleman's agreement.

"Wonderful," said Dr. Belcasim from behind them, "you have settled the thing. Now get out of my infirmary, if you would, for sooner or later I will need that bed."

 

 

*

 

 

Amaïr half expected to be woken at the next bell and told that Bouchard had been stabbed again, and this time with purpose; if he took so little care to restrain himself when addressing a captain, even a pirate captain, it could not be long before he found himself in the midst of argument belowdecks.

But it was not so. Bouchard fit in well enough, it seemed, when he put forward the effort to refrain from issuing judgment—when Amaïr made inquiries of the bosun, the quartermaster, Guellec, they all were more than willing to assure him that Bouchard worked hard and was not inclined to cause trouble. Guellec, when pressed, would concede that the latter was perhaps because he tended to keep to himself; and of course he did, Amaïr thought, because after all he would not care to catch piracy off any of them.

Still, it did not matter why: Bouchard was a good sailor, and capable of serving well enough, and once they reached a starport he would be off, and that would be the end of it.

It was all neatly resolved, and nothing else likely to come of it. Which meant there was no clear reason why Amaïr should wake gasping in the middle of ship's night a good three days afterward.

And yet he did.

The similarities were few and far between; that was what Amaïr told himself firmly, gazing up at the ceiling of his cabin without seeing it and feeling his heart hammer on relentless in his chest. The _Audacieux_ a different width and breadth, and only three-core instead of nine, and he had not been in an airlock like Bouchard—what of it, if the looming hulk of any dying ship cast much the same dim shadow through the fluvium? His mind drew lines where none existed, it was—it did not, should not, could not matter—

He flung himself up out of his bunk and dressed. He did not need to sleep any more just then.

Guellec, of course, had not expected to see him on deck for another two bells at least, and when she caught sight of him stepping through the hatch she frowned. "Sir—"

"I am restless," Amaïr said, waving her off, and then cursed himself because even that was too much; Guellec's face cleared at once in a way that said she felt herself to have understood what she had not before, and she inclined her head a little, respectful, which was a thing she did not do except when she was trying to be careful with him.

"Very good, sir," she said gently.

She did not press him; except the lack, from Guellec, was its own sort of pressure. Amaïr stubbornly made himself take a turn round the whole deck once, just to show there was nothing amiss after all—and then when it was done he escaped away at once, relieved.

Except he did not want to go back to his cabin. He considered the matter briefly and then went up instead of down; past the upper deck, the sensor bay, and then along the narrow passage that led over the forward dorsal drive-core housing, all the way to the observation deck.

He did not visit it often in the usual course of things, because it had no real utility—no matter that needed to be dealt with on-duty called anyone to the observation deck. When they were through a breach-gate and therefore back, however briefly, in standard space, there was often a burst of traffic to the observation deck to drink in a look at the stars.

But Amaïr had always loved the look of fluvium better. Stars were constant, predictable; fluvium was ever-changing, black as the void except where it flared with those sudden brilliant aurorae, colours he knew no word for. Perhaps it was strange, that he should find himself better anchored by the latter than the former—but if it was strange it was also true, and he settled there on the observation deck and felt the yoke of his shoulders ease all at once.

He could not have said how long he stood looking out. But it was long enough to make him half-forget his surroundings—long enough to let Bouchard sneak up on him.

Not that Bouchard had meant to do it. Amaïr was recalled to himself by the sound of a sigh, and a heavy booted step at the hatch; and he turned at what must have been precisely the moment Bouchard looked up and saw him, for the expression on Bouchard's face was as startled and dismayed as Amaïr felt.

Bouchard recovered first. "My apologies, Captain, I had no intention of disturbing you—"

"Of course not," Amaïr found himself saying. Looking at Bouchard, he discovered that perhaps he had only been dismayed at the startling, and not at Bouchard for doing it; Bouchard stood uncomfortably in the hatch-way, hesitant, and Amaïr did not want that—he had not known he did not want it, and yet it was so. He wanted Bouchard as Bouchard had been in the infirmary: self-righteous and belligerent and sure of himself, unbent and unbowed. Because—

Because Bouchard like that, lit up and shining, a flaming sword, was the furthest thing Amaïr could think of from a dead ship lying silenced in the deeps.

"You need not flee, Bouchard," Amaïr said, carefully droll in a way Bouchard would not like, because Bouchard had one foot out the hatch and was about to turn on it and go.

And, sure enough, Bouchard gave him a sharp look and did not turn. He frowned a little, shifted his weight to the near side of the hatch-way, and lifted his chin. "I am not in the habit of fleeing, sir."

"I had that impression," Amaïr murmured, and then graced Bouchard with his most charming smile. "But you _are_ in the habit of haunting a ship's furthest decks, when you do not have the watch and are not on duty?"

"If it is forbidden—"

"I am a pirate, you know," Amaïr said, as though Bouchard might have forgotten it since last they'd spoken. "I forbid very little."

Bouchard looked at him searchingly. "And yet you have set watches and duties, and by all accounts will not suffer disorder. You run a tight ship, sir, for a pirate."

Amaïr turned away, and shrugged his shoulders so Bouchard would see it did not signify. "What satisfaction could there be in the captaincy of a crew that will not heed orders? I am a selfish and petulant man, Bouchard, and do not care to be ignored. Surely even you cannot argue with that."

He risked a glance; Bouchard was still looking at him, and no longer frowning, those striking eyes focused and intent. "Well," he said, "in that case, sir, I will attend, and answer you properly. The view in f-space is inimitable, and I have—I have always liked it."

And at that Amaïr could not help smiling—honestly, this time—as he turned back to the great clear pane of the viewing-port above them. "Then in this matter, if no other, we are in accord," he said softly.

But there was something about the answer that nagged at him, and after a moment he worked out what it was.

"Always?"

Bouchard crossed the deck to step up beside him, and looked at him inquiringly.

"You said you had not been sailing long, before," Amaïr elaborated.

"I have not been a sailor long," Bouchard amended, "but my family is—that is to say, I have sailed." He paused a moment, as if debating whether or not to continue, and then said, "My father's business takes him traveling often; my mother and sisters and I accompanied him many times. I took a liking to it, and could not shake free."

"You tried?"

A natural question, given the way Bouchard had phrased that last; but Bouchard went tense and quiet, and when he glanced at Amaïr again he had that strange searching look in his eyes. "My father does not care to have a sailor for a son, sir," he said at last, very low. "And I suppose he probably says he does not have such a son, if asked. My interest displeased him; my persistence displeased him; my—my enrollment aboard the _Audacieux_ displeased him. And as I am not in the habit of fleeing, and you are not in the habit of suffering inattention, my father is not in the habit of being displeased." Bouchard shrugged as he said this, and spoke in a tone that was wry and even: a tone that said a price had been paid, and long enough ago that its cost, at first keenly felt, had become accepted.

"But you pressed on with it," Amaïr said.

He could almost see it, and yet it did not quite ring true. Bouchard intent, unwilling to bend to reason or to his father's practical concerns—Amaïr could imagine that well enough. But Bouchard seemed above all things to treasure a _purpose_ , a cause: it was Amaïr's confession of disinterest in such matters, his disavowal of any greater design than sailing and earning himself a living, that had drawn Bouchard's ire in the infirmary.

And yet: the merchant marine. Sailing and a living was a fair description, was it not? Did the sheer abstract legality of it, working under His Imperial Majesty's colours, make so great a difference to Bouchard?

"I could not help it, sir," Bouchard said with sudden feeling. "I could not stand by and let it slip away from me. If it were only the view, or the travel, or the pay, I would not have wanted it so much—but above all that it is—" He stopped and shook his head, and caught the curve of his lower lip against his teeth. "Oh, I do not have the words. It is so very fine a thing, to serve to the best of one's ability in a place where one is needed; to be part of something larger, greater; to have a duty and fulfill it, by others working the same, and all bound together in common purpose by the dictates of honour, principle, conscience—"

"If you keep on that way you shall have us all enlisted, even yourself," Amaïr said, with half a laugh; he hardly knew what words had come out of him, only that they must. He had become aware all at once that it was dangerous to let Bouchard go on, it was—his heart was pummelling at his insides again, and not for dreams or memories but for Bouchard, standing there with fire in his eyes and his face all alight, and that bitten lip flushing fervently red—

Bouchard cleared his throat, oblivious, and said, "I—that is, if you say so, sir."

Amaïr had not meant to make him feel self-conscious over it. "No," he said, "no, you have the right of it, Bouchard. There were ways open to me once that I might have taken elsewhere; even pirates do not become captains in error. _Aljana_ is mine, but then again she is not: of us two she is much the greater, and there is a feeling in the sailing of her that cannot be captured by any other means—when the current is right and the cores are hot and we are cutting through the fluvium, and it is all so much more than myself but for a moment I have it in my grasp—"

He broke off there, aware all at once that he was rapidly devolving toward incoherency, because Bouchard had been right in more than one respect: there were no words for it. He huffed a laugh at himself, and shook his head, and turned to give his apologies for rambling; and that was when he caught sight of Bouchard's face.

It was an unmistakable expression, for all that it was of course unfamiliar on Bouchard. Amaïr had seen it often enough to recognise it nevertheless. Bouchard's eyes were bright, the line of his mouth soft, the angle of his brows intent, and taken all together the arithmetic gave but a single sum: Bouchard was looking at Amaïr as though he wished very dearly to kiss him.

For a moment a wealth of possibility unfolded before Amaïr, in unanticipated and scintillating glory. He had not expected it of Bouchard in the least, that he might be had for a night at the price of a rescue, an argument, three days' time, and an inarticulate but heartfelt speech; it had only just occurred to Amaïr not five minutes past that it might be a pleasure to pin Bouchard to a bulkhead somewhere and try to win an argument with him properly. But that served merely to increase the sense of wondrous, prized discovery: to think of Bouchard in his cabin, his bed, beneath him or over him or both in their turn, head thrown back and eyes screwed shut, crying out—to think it not only with desire, but with the breathless awareness that it might in fact be possible—

Bouchard sucked in a sharp unsteady breath and jerked backward a step, and then swallowed twice. Amaïr could not help but follow the movement of his throat with a hungry stare, and when he belatedly met Bouchard's eyes again, Bouchard had flushed hot across both cheeks and the tips of the ears. "I—beg your pardon, Captain Marouane," he said quickly, "it is—I had best—" and then he seemed to give the thing up for lost, clamped his mouth shut, and was away through the hatch before Amaïr could so much as lay a hand on him.

Air seemed to fill the room again as soon as Bouchard had quit it, and Amaïr drew it gratefully in and gazed at the space where he had been. Well, Amaïr thought. Not so easy as that, then. But he did not have to rush Bouchard, after all. They were weeks from any breach-gate, and further still from one of the starports that lay beyond. So he would not tumble Bouchard tonight; that was all right. He could not count himself disappointed—it felt inevitable yet, that Bouchard would give in and Amaïr would have him and be satisfied, and in the meantime to sustain him he had the memory of that look on Bouchard's face, the curve of his lush slackened mouth and the flush in his cheek.

Yes, that would serve quite well for the moment. Amaïr laced his hands behind his head and gazed out at the fluvium, and hummed a little tune to himself, and thought he was very glad to have sighted the _Audacieux_ after all.

 

 

*

 

 

It was several days before he saw Bouchard again; he did not let himself be troubled by it. He was eager to meet Bouchard anew, of course, and to discover whether that moment of perfect brilliant tension between them could be recaptured—whether that hotly intent expression could be summoned again to Bouchard's face. But to rush the thing, he told himself, would be unwise. No doubt Bouchard was suffering an attack of scruples over the matter, he and his honour and principle and conscience finding themselves so unexpectedly drawn to fall into a bunk with a pirate captain. Had Bouchard ever even kissed anyone he did not like before? It seemed improbable.

So: Bouchard would need a little time to reconcile himself to the idea. Amaïr could well afford to grant it to him.

He turned over the possibilities in his head while he waited. It was devilish satisfying to imagine that Bouchard would simply be overcome—that some ship's night he would discover he could bear it no longer, and pound down Amaïr's door; and Amaïr would not need to do any convincing at all, Bouchard himself would _insist_ —

A lovely, lovely thought. But of course Amaïr was not a fool. Much more likely that it would happen some other way: that Amaïr would have to call Bouchard to him for some other reason entirely, and that the conversation would turn, as unexpectedly as it had on the observation deck; that it would come over them again like a great and sudden swell, unpredictable gravity, and nothing to be done but wreck upon it.

Nowhere among the options Amaïr had considered, however, had been that he would one day go looking for Guellec, and find her interceding in the conclusion of a brawl in the ship's mess. He stepped in beside, of course, and came out gripping Rissam at the shoulders so she could not swing out again at—who was that Guellec had? Delsarte? And then Bouchard surfaced out of the melee between them, and Amaïr could not help but raise his eyebrows.

"What is this, then?" he said over the noise, and Rissam must have recognised his voice, for at last she quit fighting his grip and allowed herself to be restrained.

"Captain!" someone else cried. "It is the captain," and the word passed in a ripple through the rest of the morass, echoing about, until all those involved in the fray had caught it and quieted, and sheepishly parted.

"Weren't my doing," Delsarte snapped, when the rush of sound and motion was done—which of course was difficult to believe, given that he felt so urgent a need to argue for it.

"Is that so," Amaïr murmured, and let Rissam go.

Bouchard was still between, and had taken up a deferent stance with his hands clasped behind him, his head carefully lowered and all of him very still, except where the fastening of his queue had come loose and several locks of hair swept free. And Rissam, released, went at once to stand beside him, and much the same way—and did not spare a glance for Delsarte, though the corner of her mouth was twisting sourly.

On the same side, then, or Rissam felt as much—which meant Bouchard had not stepped in to bring the thing to a neutral halt, but had somewise made it clear that if he fought it was at Rissam's shoulder.

He; he and his honour and principle and conscience, from which he had so far shown no inclination to be parted.

Amaïr turned a gimlet eye on Delsarte. "There is what might be called the occasional rough-and-tumble," he observed, "which is not unexpected among sailors of sufficiently high temper when they have no watch and no other employment, and which concerns me very little. But when it is half the mess at once, and even the captain's mate cannot settle it—"

"Weren't my doing!" Delsarte said again, and jerked his wrists from Guellec's grip with a scowl. "Just a bit of friendly talk—"

"Friendly _talk_ ," Bouchard burst out, head coming up and eyes full alight—and Amaïr would have had the whole matter out of him for less than the asking, he was in such a way, except then Rissam cleared her throat.

"Misunderstanding, sir," she said.

Bouchard's gaze leapt to her, disbelieving; and then he realised Amaïr was watching them and all at once remembered himself, lowering his head again. Amaïr gave Rissam a long dubious look; he was not expecting it to dent her overmuch, and indeed she bore up under it with ease. But at least she would know he was not fooled. "A misunderstanding."

"Yes, sir," Rissam said. "That's all, sir."

"I see," Amaïr murmured, and turned his gaze to Bouchard. "And would you agree with that assessment?"

And Bouchard cut a glance sideways at Rissam's impassive face, he did not seem able to stop himself; but when he spoke his voice was clear and steady, and Amaïr could hear no doubt in it. "Yes, sir," he said, and then he looked up and met Amaïr's eyes with a stare that dared Amaïr to name him a liar.

Amaïr wanted all at once to grin at him, to laugh with delight at his nerve and his ferocious endearing transparency—but no doubt Bouchard would take it ill, and for that matter so might Delsarte. "Well, then," he said instead, as coolly as he was able. "I cannot punish anyone for misunderstanding, nor for speaking in such a way as to be misunderstood; but I should not like you all to feel you may escalate matters to a brawl whenever you deem it necessary. If Guellec had not come, nor I, any one of you might have done another injury—and if fellow-feeling is not enough to sway you, let me appeal to self-interest: an injured sailor is a sailor who cannot stand a watch, and whose duties must be taken up by others.

"I shall not burden your imaginations with the task of pretence, but instead simulate this consequence directly. A double watch for you, Rissam, and you, Bouchard; and a triple watch for you, Delsarte—"

"Why's that?" Delsarte cried, rearing back; and then Guellec set a polite and amiable hand on his shoulder, and he settled and ducked his head and said quickly, "Begging your pardon, Captain."

And if Amaïr were an honest man, he could not have given Delsarte any answer but the truest: Bouchard had taken up against him, was even yet glaring fiercely at Delsarte from the corner of his eye; and Bouchard might be difficult but was not ill-tempered, might be quick to judgment but was not petty. In a dispute between Bouchard and any other sailor, it had somehow become difficult for Amaïr to imagine the other having the right of it.

But that was not a thing it would be wise to say, especially where Bouchard could hear. So: lucky for Amaïr, then, that he was a liar and a thief and a pirate.

Amaïr smiled, wide. "Ah, but you have hit upon the very thing, Delsarte," he said, "and answered your own question," and then he took a step nearer Delsarte and leaned in, and told him softly, "Because I am the captain, and I have said it will be so."

"Aye, sir," said Delsarte, and kept his eyes carefully down; and after a long moment Amaïr stepped back and moved for the hatch-way.

"Oh, and," he said over his shoulder, as if it were an afterthought, "if you would report to me, Bouchard, at the end of your double watch."

"Aye, sir," said Bouchard.

 

 

*

 

 

Amaïr was almost sorry to bid farewell to the bright effervescent simmering of anticipation, when a knock came at last upon his cabin door; he had never passed two watches as pleasantly in all his life, with the thought of Bouchard attending on him shivering so sweetly through every idle moment. But the trade was in his favour, perhaps, to give up the feeling and receive in exchange Bouchard himself, standing at last within Amaïr's cabin, hands again clasped behind him and eyes carefully lowered.

"Captain," he said.

"Ah, yes, Bouchard," Amaïr said, as though he might have forgotten requesting Bouchard's presence entirely. He sat forward in his chair and leaned across the table on one elbow, chin upon his fist, and then raised an eyebrow. "A misunderstanding."

Bouchard's mouth tightened; his shoulders settled even straighter, if such a thing were possible. "Yes, sir."

"Really," Amaïr pressed.

"Yes, sir," Bouchard said gamely.

"Oh, come now," Amaïr said, sitting back all at once and waving a hand. "I do know the way of these things—I have been a common sailor myself, and of course you should not like to contradict Rissam to her face." There was no surer way to make oneself generally loathed aboard ship than to give up a fellow sailor to discipline, however well-earned it might be—particularly when doing it meant calling a third sailor's word into question.

"I should not like to contradict Rissam, sir," Bouchard agreed, and then his heels went together and his chin came up and he added very firmly, "when she speaks the truth, sir."

Amaïr looked at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, and then pushed himself up out of his chair and rounded the table, so that he might lean back on it comfortably as he spoke to Bouchard. And, ah, there it was: as the space between them grew dearer, Bouchard's eyes flickered to Amaïr's face and then away, and he swallowed helplessly; and Amaïr felt a slow lazy heat begin to trickle down his spine.

"Yes," he murmured, "I am sure that is so. And when she does not?"

"I do not take your meaning, sir."

"Mmhmm," Amaïr said, crossing his arms. "You must think me a very great fool, Bouchard, to assume I cannot work out full well that there was more to it than was said—"

"Never that, sir," Bouchard said, low, and for a moment caught Amaïr with the full force of those eyes; and then he flushed and jerked his gaze away again and cleared his throat. "That is to say—as I have mentioned, sir, you run a tight ship; that is not the way of a fool. You care for her, and for your crew, and endeavour to keep both in their best order; that is not the way of a fool."

"But?" Amaïr prompted.

"But it was a misunderstanding, sir," said Bouchard, unwavering.

And at last Amaïr could not keep the smile away any longer. He laughed, and let the traces of it linger on his face as he looked at Bouchard; and then he stepped nearer, near enough to hear Bouchard's breath catch in his throat, and shook his head. "For a man who lies as often as I do," he told Bouchard gently, "I have never cared to be lied to. You are a lucky fellow indeed, Bouchard, that I want you as much as I do—" and that made Bouchard's gaze leap to him, bright and intent, and his mouth went soft and startled— "for I have also never cared to dispense my favours before they are bought, and yet—"

He stopped short, there; it was impossible not to. It had been compelling beyond words, to see Bouchard's face bloom with such sudden lustful warmth—and it was also beyond them to describe the decisiveness with which that warmth had been snuffed out. Bouchard had turned to stone, those eyes were chips of ice in his graven face; the line of his mouth was flat and tight, his jaw and his throat likewise, and whatever flush remained in his cheek was stealing fast away.

"I seek no one's favours, sir," Bouchard said sharply, in a tone that stung with frost, "whether to buy or to barter—"

Amaïr fought the urge to grit his teeth. "No, no; Bouchard—"

"—and will not stand to have it said otherwise—"

"Bouchard!" Amaïr cried, and this time loud enough that Bouchard went mulishly quiet, though he did not in any other way acknowledge it: his icy gaze was now fixed firmly to the rearward cabin wall. "For all love, man—must you perceive things in as ill a light as you can find? Must every damn word come to argument—"

"When I consider it worth the arguing, sir," Bouchard told the rearward cabin wall very coldly. "I should not—I should not want to be wanted, sir, by anyone who thought so badly of me as to say—"

Amaïr laughed again, but this time bitter and incredulous; and most likely he should not have done it, but it was so preposterous an accusation, coming as close as it did on the heels of the brawl in the mess. Amaïr had levied harsher punishment upon Delsarte on no better evidence than that Bouchard had been opposed to him—and Amaïr had not wanted better, had felt that sufficient in itself. That Bouchard should have the nerve to suggest Amaïr _disdained_ him was really too much. If anything—

If anything, it was Bouchard who was disdainful; it was Bouchard who thought badly of—

Amaïr cast all unpleasant thoughts aside, with no small effort, and made himself amiable again. "Come now, Bouchard," he said, in a companionable sort of tone. "This is all quite unnecessary."

And that, for some reason, drew Bouchard's eyes to him again. "I find it necessary, sir," Bouchard said softly, and there was something strange, almost pained, in his face. "Will that be all?"

"Bouchard—"

"Will that be all, Captain," Bouchard said again, and this time he was not asking.

Amaïr shut his eyes, and felt suddenly very tired. "Yes," he said flatly, "yes, you may consider yourself dismissed," and he leaned back against the table and sighed a long sorry breath through his nose, and listened to Bouchard going.

Perhaps they had better navigate their way to a breach-gate sooner rather than later after all.

 

 

*

 

 

Of course, that was much more easily said than done, as deep in f-space as they were. And it was no true hardship, to avoid Bouchard—it hardly needed doing at all. There were many matters that required Amaïr's attention, when he was on deck; what did he care, if Bouchard happened to have a watch just then, or to be on duty above in the sensor bay, or to be on his back below some deck-station or other with a loop of cable and a repair to make? It did not signify. Amaïr did not pay him any mind, except to step absently over his legs if it was necessary.

He did seem to move terrible loud, it was true. And to breathe very often.

But Amaïr could hardly have ordered him to stop. And he would never be the sort of captain who made a sailor's life hell over a personal refusal of that kind. To think of Bouchard tired and unhappy, all the sharp bright edges of him dulled, giving in at last to the touch of Amaïr's hand with silent spiritless fatigue—it was not to be borne, it did not appeal in the least. Better to let the matter rest, and go on without incident along their course.

Or at least as little incident as they could manage. The readings from _Aljana_ 's fins caught Amaïr's eye very early; and if they had settled after a day or two, he would have been content to think nothing of it.

But they did not.

He set Guellec to watch them while he slept; and when he was refreshed and returned to the main deck, she turned round and looked at him grimly. So they had not improved.

"Forward scans do not promise any relief," she told him, and with a glance at the readings he could see she had not misjudged the matter. The strange persistent current—just a little tug, just the barest inclination to pull ventrally and starboard—had not gone. It was not stronger, or not much so; but that it had gone on all this distance and could still be so easily read spoke to a vast deep mass of fluvium below them, a swell that could at any time draw them down.

Amaïr gazed down at the readout. If it had not said its piece clearly enough, he thought almost that he could have felt it: Guellec had kept her tone low, but nevertheless there was a certain atmosphere on deck, a wary uneasy stillness in the air, that did not lend itself to idle talk or an easy manner. At that moment, there were steps at the hatch; and Amaïr turned and of course it was Bouchard, just coming on duty himself. Their eyes caught for the briefest instant, and then Amaïr looked away and clapped Guellec on the shoulder, and thought to himself from a queer sort of distance that indeed there was a storm coming.

"Well," he said aloud. "We shall pay it close attention. If you would tell Verdier—let us have the seventh core at the ready."

"Aye, sir," said Guellec, and did.

 _Aljana_ was to all appearances a six-core twenty-decker—moderate in size and maneuverability, quicker than a six-core thirty- or forty-decker but of course less well-armed, and a nine-core of any quality would have her turning on her tail. A casual inspection would also show six sails, as might be expected, to charge her when the electromagnetic flow was fair.

But a more deliberate eye might discern a peculiar flare to her hull at the stern; and it was near impossible to see when the cores were firing, lost amid the blue gleam they gave off in propulsion, but when they were quiet it was clear that she had not six drive-core housings, but seven.

Against a nine-core navy ship-of-the-line, the seventh core could deliver no real advantage except perhaps the element of surprise, and mild surprise at that. And because it had no light-sail to call its own but drew charge from its neighbors, it could not be fired without consequence.

But, nevertheless, it had its uses—and might well stand between them and the fate of the _Audacieux_ , depending.

Amaïr remained on deck, with an eye on the readings and a hand on the guidance yoke—old-fashioned equipment, to be sure, but he preferred it to a navigation console under circumstances requiring real precision. The flow of readings from the fins reacted at once to each twitch of his hand, or near enough as made no difference; it gave him a truer sense for the feel of the current. Or at least he fancied it so: and he was captain, so there were none aboard who would gainsay him.

The waiting was no pleasure. It was with relief that in the mid-afternoon Amaïr saw signs of the swell coming upon them. He told Guellec to have the sails secured, and was almost too late about it; the readings all leapt at once, and when he swung the yoke a little, testing, a half-dozen pressure alarms came blazing up from the fins. Perhaps at last the thing was close enough to be discerned by the array—

"Captain, the forward readings," said Bouchard, before Amaïr could open his mouth to ask, and transferred them at once to the main console—and in that moment Amaïr could feel no need for either resentment or avoidance. They were two parts of one ship, he and Bouchard, and however poorly they communicated in every other way, in this, here, it was effortless to look up at Bouchard in the forward bay, to nod to him and see him nod in return, and know they had understood one another.

The results from the acoustic array were disfigured—bent, bowed, by the welling clutch of gravity. But Amaïr could yet wring some sense from them, and did. He had already had a dim vague impression that the worst of it lay below them, reckoning by the ship's current axis; and yet the readings showed a pocket of increasing mass just before them, and a bit to port. He could not shake his certainty that to dive below it would only land them in worse trouble, and yet if they ran themselves aground upon it they would be no better off.

"Captain," Bouchard said again, and another ream of data came and arranged itself across Amaïr's console—no clearer.

"Take a reading below," Amaïr said, and Bouchard's brow creased but—a miracle!—he did not argue, only bent to the array controls and did it.

"Captain," he said again, more urgently, when it was done; and Amaïr looked over the results and for a moment could not guess why. But Bouchard had highlighted one particular group of readings—mangled like the rest, but Amaïr gave them a second glance and imagined how a gravitational transformation might have drawn them astray, and—yes, perhaps Bouchard had found it after all: the barest sensor-shadow of that second swell beneath them.

"Yes, I think you have it there," he said to Bouchard aloud; and he had the space of a single drawn-out breath to look up and see how Bouchard smiled at him, the slant of his mouth and the warm admiring light in his eyes—and then another wave of alarms swept across his console, and there was no room in Amaïr's head for anything but the current.

He got word from Guellec that Verdier had primed the seventh core and warmed it up, and none too soon; the other six were already burning hard just to keep _Aljana_ on her present course. Amaïr eyed the readings. They could not draw much lower than they were and hope to stay clear of the swell below; and they were not far enough from the swell before to have any hope of drawing above it, with _Aljana_ already fighting to hold level. They must skim it, then—have speed enough as they passed that it could not drag them in. The seventh core would serve, but only if it were not burned overlong; if it drew too much charge from its fellows, one of the six would run dry and fail, and they would be no better off.

So: a matter of timing, then. Amaïr settled his hand more firmly against the guidance yoke and kept his gaze fixed to the console, and did not read the numbers there so much as he followed, with a mindless instantaneous attention, their rising or falling.

"Sir?" said Guellec, across the comm.

"Hold," said Amaïr.

"Sir—"

"Hold," said Amaïr, so wholly consumed by the task that he might have sworn he could feel the current itself in the guidance yoke—nonsense, there was no genuine mechanical connection between the yoke and _Aljana_ 's fins, and yet it seemed in that moment that it was so.

There was a sound, a faint deep thrum; and beneath Amaïr's feet the deck had begun to tremble like a plucked string, singing out with tension as competing gravities began to pull with real strength upon the hull.

"Sir!" Guellec said, with no small urgency.

"Only a little further and we shall have it," Amaïr murmured, unflinching, and he could not have said why but he knew, _knew_ , that he had the right of it; that they must wait, just another moment—

Neither could he have said which number it was that changed just then, what might have altered in the vibration tripping through the deck that spoke to him. But whatever it was, it occurred and he discerned it.

" _Now_ ," he said, sharp, and Verdier must have fairly leapt to at the sound, for _Aljana_ pressed forward with a seven-core blaze almost before he had finished the word.

The readings jumped likewise, and Amaïr had a single bad moment—watching them climb, heart in his throat and hammering away, and his fingers tight on the yoke to stop _Aljana_ pulling any further port than she was already. Too high and it would not matter how quick they were, whether they had six drive-cores or seven; the hull would shear apart like the _Audacieux_ —

One terrible sharp spike and it was over. Amaïr gave the word to Verdier and heard himself do it as though from somewhere else; and even as the deck settled beneath him, even as he turned to search out Bouchard, Guellec's voice came across the comm.

"What?" she said, as Amaïr blinked up at the empty sensor bay. Bouchard, he was—where had he gone? "The airlock?" Guellec said. "Tell me," and then her breath caught; and Amaïr felt his gut sink sharply within him, even before she swapped channels and said, "Captain—Captain, you had better come below at once."

 

 

*

 

 

Of course Bouchard could not have left well enough alone; Amaïr did realise that much. _His_ attention had not been so wholly absorbed as Amaïr's, and Bouchard was not the sort of sailor to let a cry for aid go unanswered.

It had not been directed at Bouchard, but that had not mattered. A broadcast over all channels, for any sailor who had no other occupation—Amaïr could not even recall hearing it, but Guellec assured him it had been so. And Bouchard—Bouchard had rigged the sensor-glass to feed data directly to Amaïr's console, and had barely waited to see that it worked before he had gone.

Guellec explained, steady and brisk in Amaïr's ear, as Amair hurried along: it was Harrat, who had been sent out along with Papon to secure the sails. Papon had had no trouble, but Harrat had suffered a jam, and had, knowing the importance of the thing, suited up and gone out on the hull to see what might be done about it.

He had been with _Aljana_ a long time, and was not incompetent; he knew what he was about, and had been as cautious as Amaïr could ask. But caution was an imperfect counter for happenstance: the swell had not been enough to drag Harrat away, but the current of fluvium, fast and wild as it was, had caught every loose length of tether it could find—had tossed them all about—had, in its merciless uncaring fury, snagged a loop of it about the unsecured sail, where it had been drawn too taut to withstand and had snapped.

Harrat had clung to the hull, had taken what remained and had secured himself as best he could; and then—of course—Bouchard had been first to the airlock, and—of course—had insisted on going himself, with Papon at the winch.

And to be fair to Bouchard, Papon's arms were quivering yet with exhaustion from securing the port-side light-sails as quickly as she had. But still, Amaïr thought resentfully, he had not had to throw himself into the middle of the whole mess with such abandon.

With Harrat and Bouchard both on their way back, and against the current, the strain on the winch was naturally enormous, and Amaïr wasted no time in charging past Papon and into the airlock and taking hold of the tether, between the winch and where the tether was fed out through the airlock seal. He and Guellec together drew on it as hard as they could until they found a little slack, and the winch thanked them by quitting the dreadful grinding sound it had been making up 'til then.

The two of them and the winch together were surely enough to retrieve Bouchard and Harrat safely; surely, Amaïr told himself, surely, again and again, until he almost believed it. "How far?" he cried, and Papon conveyed that in fact Bouchard's tether must nearly all be wound, they could not be far from the airlock at all, and then Amaïr's comm came alive.

"Indeed, we are close, sir," Bouchard shouted, over the hum of rushing fluvium around him; and Amaïr experienced such a heady contradictory swell of fury and relief on hearing him that he hardly knew how to answer.

And of course they could not stop pulling—Amaïr would not have trusted the winch alone to bring Bouchard and Harrat safely a single inch, let alone whatever length remained between them and the airlock. "Guellec!" he cried, in warning, and waited 'til she nodded her head; and then he gave the order to Papon and sucked in the deepest breath he could.

The pumps worked quickly: fluvium climbed Amaïr's knees, thighs, chest, like a live thing, surging and tugging at him; it was wet and yet not, its touch prickling and crackling across his skin. But here in the airlock its pressures were not dangerous and could not meddle with his innards as they might if he went out suitless—he and Guellec were at risk only insofar as they might drown.

And they did not. Papon cycled the airlock as rapidly as could be asked, and within a moment Bouchard's suit-gloved hand came into view, grappling carefully along the edge of the hull. Guellec pushed off from the deck and swam over to grip it, to guide Bouchard and Harrat carefully in from where the current was tugging at them, with Amaïr still drawing in the tether, and then the thing was done: they were in, and Papon cycled the airlock again and the fluvium still within it was pumped immediately away.

The tether could be safely released; Amaïr let it go and only then felt how his hands and knuckles were aching, his lungs burning—but in a moment the fluvium had dropped away beneath the level of his face, and he sucked in a sweet, sweet breath and shook his dripping hair back out of his eyes.

Guellec was helping Bouchard support Harrat, who was awake but wore a look that was tense and tight with pain, and could not quite stand. It was his arm, Amaïr saw, there was something terribly wrong with his arm; it must have been caught in his tether, before the thing had snagged and broken, and had been badly mangled.

Papon commed at once for Belcasim, who must already have been on her way—Amaïr had time enough to clap Harrat on his good shoulder and tell him he would be all right and had done well, and then Belcasim was there.

Belcasim was there, Harrat did not need Bouchard anymore, and so it was all right for Amaïr to turn away from Harrat and fist a hand in Bouchard's suit, and tug him sharply up and away.

"What—"

Amaïr recalled, with no small effort, that he ought to show some concern for the man, and forced himself to speak steadily. "You, Bouchard, are you injured anywhere?"

"No, sir," Bouchard said, sounding startled and a little wary. He had tugged his breather mask down even while the fluvium level was still falling, so he could talk gently to Harrat without a comm channel between; his queue had come half-loose, his hair wet with fluvium and all in disarray, and he was red-faced and breathing hard from the exertion.

"You have Harrat?" Amaïr said to Guellec, without looking away from Bouchard.

"We have him, Captain," Guellec said, Belcasim humming in distracted agreement as she began to inspect Harrat's arm.

So Amaïr felt wholly justified in shoving Bouchard a half-step and glaring at him fiercely, and saying, "Then there is no need of you here—you will strip out of that suit, sir, and I will suffer no excuse if you are not in attendance on me within the quarter-hour. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Bouchard said, and then Amaïr let him go and turned and went out.

 

 

*

 

 

Amaïr stalked to his cabin in a whirl of—of he did not even know what, some strange electric emotion jangling through him. That Bouchard should have done such a thing, should have plunged himself into such danger without the least hesitation, was of course very like him; and Amaïr's attention had been elsewhere, and he could hardly claim that Bouchard ought to have interrupted him, just to—what? To ask his permission to go to the aid of a fellow sailor? Even if Amaïr had declared it law beforehand, Bouchard would not have bided by it, and would have gone without delay if he saw the need. It was only that Amaïr had not felt him go, had not known it; to think that if there had been trouble with the seventh core, Verdier a little slower or the charge drawn a little lower, Amaïr might have paid no mind to Guellec, or Guellec might have paid no mind to her comm—he might have stayed on the main deck and never heard a thing about it, all unknowing, while out on the hull Bouchard—

Amaïr shook his head sharply, casting the thought away, and burst through the cabin hatch-way, pushing the hatch-door with force enough that it rebounded from the wall with a satisfyingly tremendous clang. He glanced at the captain's table, the captain's chair, but knew at once that he could not bear to be still, could not restrain himself as would be required to construct an appropriate tableau for Bouchard. As if he had any hope of playing at stern, responsible disappointment! Bouchard knew Amaïr to be petty, arbitrary; he would not be surprised to be berated, and could bear it.

It seemed an hour, a day, an age must pass, before Bouchard would arrive; Amaïr paced about with vicious energy and muttered discourtesies under his breath, until at last, at last, the hatch-door swung to.

"Sir," Bouchard said, and he had made an effort after all—he must have stripped very quickly indeed and then run the whole way to Amaïr's cabin, for he was half out of breath, still pink in the face; his buttons were only half-done, fingers still busy at them even as he stepped through the hatch-way, and he had not paused to re-tie his hair. "Captain—"

"I beg you will restrain yourself," Amaïr bit out, and Bouchard's mouth closed with a snap. "You may marshal your excuses if you like, line them up at the ready; and if I wish to hear them I shall ask you for them, Bouchard."

Bouchard was silent for a moment, wide-eyed and staring. And then he left off fumbling at his buttons to clasp his hands behind his back, shoulders squared—at attention, gaze carefully directed off somewhere in the middle distance. "Aye, sir," he said quietly.

As if he were a navy man; as if _Amaïr_ were, though Bouchard could not possibly know—as if Amaïr were a Lourguinnais captain, and Bouchard truly his crewman and not some poor devil he had fished from a wreck. Both a gift and a mockery, that thought; in another life, it might have been possible—and Bouchard would not have despised him then, surely, not a fine upstanding navy captain—

Amaïr felt his mouth twist, felt that great drowning swell of competing impulse rise up in him again; he was pleased Bouchard had managed not to die, he was, and yet Bouchard alive was therefore present to be raged at, and oh, how Amaïr wished to rage at him! Bouchard must understand where he had erred, that he was never to do such a thing again.

"You abandoned your post, sir," he snapped. "In the midst of grave and unchartable dangers, when there might very well have been need of you in the sensor bay—"

"Need of me?" Bouchard said, because of course the man could be trusted to do almost anything _except_ keep his mouth closed. "Captain, you had no need of me—"

"I shall thank you to leave that determination to me!" Amaïr near shouted at him, but naturally he was hardly attending.

"—you were," Bouchard said, and then stopped, swallowed twice, and seemed only with an effort to keep his gaze where it was, away from Amaïr. "I have—I have never seen anyone sail like that. Sir."

Amaïr stared at him, suddenly and disorientingly wrongfooted. _This_ was a moment in which Bouchard felt it right to pay him compliments? Surely Bouchard did not mean to ease his temper by it—that was much too clever a ploy for Bouchard, who could barely manage to lie when asked, let alone on his own initiative—

"However it is you find my sailing," he said aloud, keeping his voice even with an effort, "I do not see that it has any bearing on the matter at hand. I will not have you running off will-ye-nill-ye, leaving any number of responsibilities aboard ship to flounder in your wake. Is that understood?"

"Captain—"

" _Is that understood?_ " Amaïr cried, and brought his fist down against the captain's table with a ferocious crack.

Bouchard's jaw worked silently for a moment. "Aye, sir," he said at last, very low.

"My thanks! Your cooperation in this regard is much appreciated, M. Bouchard," Amaïr said sharply. "We made a deal, as I recall, and shook hands upon it, and by all love you shall keep your word—"

"To work as I would aboard any other ship," Bouchard recited, crisp. "I have done that, sir. I went to Harrat's aid as I would have gone to the aid of any sailor—"

"When she is done with Harrat I shall have the good doctor _sew your mouth shut_ ," Amaïr swore.

"—and as you yourself did for me," Bouchard went on, loud enough to carry over Amaïr, and he had given up remaining at perfect attention in favour of glaring fiercely at Amaïr, wild-haired and fiery-eyed and—

And lovely, damn it all.

Amaïr cursed aloud and dragged his gaze off Bouchard, and rubbed his thumb across the bridge of his nose.

" _Twice_ now," Bouchard said, "for you might have been drowned in that airlock—and yet you did not hesitate a moment. Did you?"

Amaïr shook his head, frustrated. "That is not the same—"

"In what respect, sir?"

"In respect of the fact that I am captain, Bouchard," Amaïr said, very slow and precise, in the dim hope that this would prevent Bouchard misunderstanding him. "Harrat is under my command; he is my responsibility; and if I had ordered you to your death for his sake, I should full well expect you to say aye and hop to—"

—which was an eminently true statement, precisely because Amaïr would have climbed out of the airlock suitless to fetch Harrat himself before giving such an order, but never mind that—

"—but I will not have you taking up that banner for the charge on your own recognisance. I _will not_. I could not call myself captain otherwise."

This burst out of him with all the force that was required, which felt like a very great deal: as though it were so fundamental a truth that it could only barely be contained within the words Amaïr must use to speak it, and as though he had used up some essential inner vigour in the attempt. He slumped back a little against the table when the words were out, closed his eyes and pressed the back of one hand to his forehead, and sighed, sharp and tired, through his nose.

"I cannot have you killed, Bouchard," he murmured. "I cannot have you killed at all, and certainly not in undertaking a task rightly mine. I could not bear it—please, sir, be merciful, and do not make me."

He did not look up.

"Is that all, sir?" Bouchard said softly, after a long moment.

"Yes, that is all," Amaïr agreed, without moving; and then, summoning a determined lightness, added, "Dismissed, and you may sleep easy; I shall not have you tossed out an airlock."

"I am glad to hear it, Captain," Bouchard said.

Amaïr could readily follow the course of his steps toward the hatch-way even without looking up, for Bouchard walked as decisively and incautiously as he did everything else. And there was the pause that signified his reaching for the hatch-door; and there the sound of its closing; and—

And then it cycled shut with a clank of metal and the soft electric chime of the lock panel, except Amaïr had not heard Bouchard step out.

He looked up.

Bouchard was there, just turning away from the hatch. Their eyes met. Bouchard did not flinch or falter; he crossed the span of decking between them, unhesitating, and came to Amaïr there at the edge of the table.

 

 

*

 

 

It was a surprise, a great and uncertain surprise: Bouchard within arm's length, and of his own volition; and Amaïr was almost too bewildered by it to know what to do with him.

But not quite, it must be admitted.

It felt very daring indeed, to reach out for Bouchard and wind a hand into that half-tied queue, to catch him by the line of hastily-fastened buttons and reel him in; but Amaïr did it and was not cast away, nor struck by lightning for the trespass. Bouchard made a small sound in his throat and came to Amaïr easily, eagerly, catching him about the waist with warm, steady hands.

"Did you by any chance suffer some profound injury to the brain, during your maneuvers on the hull?" Amaïr inquired diffidently, lightly, cautious with sudden hope.

And Bouchard grinned at him, glorious and pink-cheeked, and then tilted his head back and laughed—Amaïr could not help but run an admiring thumb along the line of his throat, and Bouchard's laugh was cut off; he let his eyes fall shut and leaned into Amaïr's touch with something that was nearly a shudder, and his hands tightened on Amaïr's sides.

"It is only," Amaïr heard himself say, "that I have—I have intended more than once to put you at ease, and be charming, and please you; and every time it has been disaster; and now I have screamed at you a quarter-hour and you are— _ah_ —"

Bouchard had dipped down a little, just far enough to circle his hands round the backs of Amaïr's thighs—his broad strong sailor's hands, with their long clever fingers, their scattering of electric burn-scars; and as if that had not been quite enough to keep Amaïr content, he had braced himself and lifted, just enough to place Amaïr upon the captain's table rather than in front of it, so he might the more easily crowd himself up very near between Amaïr's parted knees.

"Because I thought you meant to make a mockery of me," Bouchard was murmuring, leaning in to brush his lips across one of Amaïr's cheeks and then the other. "Because I wanted you so very badly, and yet you seemed at every turn determined to thwart me—"

" _I_ —"

"Oh, yes," Bouchard insisted, contrary to all sense and reason, and tipped Amaïr's face round to brush another kiss across his chin. "You were half the time so appealing I could think of nothing else; and half the time so cruel—making it as clear as you could that you anticipated only the having of me," and he moved on to the nose, "and no fellow-feeling in it at all," and then one brow, "no affection or integrity," and the other, "no deeper sentiment of any sort—"

And Amaïr heard this and felt a strange tension in himself, a tightness through the chest, as though it were a distant death-knell, somewise ominous and final. "But that has all changed?" he managed.

"Yes, I think it has," Bouchard said softly, and moved away only far enough to meet Amaïr's eyes, to gaze at him with that searching intent stare he had. "Will you tell me I am wrong?"

"If I were a man of affection and integrity, I would disillusion you," Amaïr told him, with half a smile, waiting distantly for the thing in his chest to ease and let him breathe. "But then you would go, and never look at me again; so it is fortunate that instead I am a pirate."

And Bouchard looked at him strangely and touched his hair, his cheek, gently; and then he said, "Oh, I am disillusioned, sir—I see clearly."

Amaïr could not have sworn he meant to argue, when he opened his mouth to speak again. But it did not matter in any case: Bouchard did not let him say a word, only leaned in and caught Amaïr's mouth with his own.

It was—Amaïr had thought, when he had let himself, that he would likely need to be careful with Bouchard; to touch him gently and compliment him, and make him comfortable, and be very measured and patient about the whole thing.

But that had clearly been ungenerous of him—and perhaps had had more to do with his lingering wistful sense that Bouchard would need a great deal of convincing than it had with the reality of Bouchard himself. Amaïr had thought it not five minutes past: Bouchard walked just the way he did everything else, decisively and incautiously; and that was how he seemed to mean to carry on.

He did not hesitate a moment. His hands were sure and eager at Amaïr's belt, and he faltered not at all when Amaïr gripped him hard across the shoulders, or kissed him deep and greedy, or shuddered against him. Amaïr was swept by a sudden desperate certainty that he must not let this opportunity pass, must wring every joy from it that he could before it was taken from him; so he clutched at every bit of Bouchard he could reach with one hand, and worked the other with steadfast concentration upon Bouchard's buttons.

Wonderful, to be sure, to have his hands on Bouchard at all. But better still to find skin, to press his palms to the curves of Bouchard's sides, to skim his fingers across the muscles of Bouchard's chest—to, after the terrible hard shock of looking for him and finding him absent, feel him so directly, warm and alive and gone nowhere Amaïr could not reach him.

And Bouchard did not push him away. Bouchard leaned into him, closed his eyes and kissed back with furious intensity. He smoothed those lovely hands along Amaïr's shoulders, back, thighs, in lines of delicious rising heat; as he was not shy to give his opinions unsolicited, he was not shy to press himself up intently against Amaïr, nor to slide an arm between them and—

"Yes, _yes_ ," Amaïr encouraged him, breathless, eyes screwed helplessly shut and clinging to Bouchard for all he was worth. "Bless your perfect hands, Bouchard, they are a gift beyond all measuring—"

"And you said 'twas my mouth wanted sewing," Bouchard said, panting, with a laugh; and then he did something with a twist of his wrist that left Amaïr wordless at last, trembling and blissful, the great and powerful wave crested and crashing upon him.

He summoned the presence of mind to hitch a leg properly round Bouchard's hip and press him closer, to give him something to move against—and yet he had the dim unsteady feeling that it was not that assistance which tipped Bouchard across the blazing edge, but rather the way Amaïr kissed him, wound his fingers in Bouchard's wild tumbling hair and murmured, "Ah, Matéo—"

"Amaïr," Bouchard whispered back, very low and close and warm, and shuddered in Amaïr's arms; and Amaïr kissed him hard to stop him saying it again, with a sudden sharp presentiment that it would be unwise to allow it.

As if the exercise of caution from here onward might save him, he thought—as if anything could.

 

 

*

 

 

The captain's table was a fine solid piece of work, well-made, and naturally wired for holo-projection—Amaïr could consult three-dimensional charts of f-space; call up data feeds from any number of consoles or instruments, along with the fins and acoustic array; and dine very pleasantly with Guellec of a ship's evening, too, if the mood struck.

It was not, however, particularly comfortable to sit on.

Bouchard was willing to be convinced of this; and willing also to be drawn off past it and into the captain's cabin proper; and willing, too, to have the unbuttoned shirt shoved at last entirely off his shoulders. It occurred to Amaïr that this was as fine a juncture as any for them both to remove their boots, which he did not expect they would need, and when that was done he herded Bouchard decisively over and into his bunk—which was far wider and softer than the standard, and certainly more so than any bunk in Bouchard's precious merchant marine.

Bouchard stretched himself out across it very appealingly, those brilliant eyes falling luxuriously shut, and sighed a little.

"How unprincipled of you, Bouchard," Amaïr told him, "to so enjoy the fruits of my criminal endeavours," and then he did not get any further before Bouchard laughed and kicked out at him, snared him round the back of the knee with one ankle and tugged him down alongside.

They were both wholly disarrayed, and vile with sweat besides; it was difficult to care overmuch. They lay there kissing and running greedy hands over each other, and, blissfully satisfied, Amaïr felt himself drift away a little under the gentle pressure of Bouchard's fingers in his hair, the whole warm weight of him so solid and present.

But he did not get far before he was recalled, and by that pleasantest of sensations: his own buttons parting, one at a time.

He had pursued with singleminded attention the truly pressing matter of Bouchard's shirt, and had paid no mind to his own. And Bouchard had perhaps been more singleminded still—Amaïr's belt lay abandoned somewhere on the floor in their wake, and Bouchard had got a hand well within the bounds of his trousers, though they had not been shoved down further than was necessary; but his shirt had been undone only far enough that his collar might be tugged out of the way of Bouchard's mouth on his throat.

He smiled against Bouchard's neck without opening his eyes, and stretched one arm out, leisurely, that Bouchard might free it from its sleeve. "There is something I think I had better tell you, sir, before we go on much longer," Bouchard was murmuring while doing so; and then he reached round Amaïr's shoulders for the other, and—

Amaïr cracked an eye open. Bouchard had gone frightfully still, all of him at once; it was impossible to miss, pressed together as they were. "What is it?"

Bouchard swallowed—Amaïr could hear it, this close—and very cautiously moved his hand, the one that had skimmed along Amaïr's shoulders: tracing, quite light, the highest of the fat raised lines of scarring there.

Ah. Of course. He would not have noticed before; he had had no opportunity. Amaïr eased back far enough to smile at him disarmingly. And also, as it happened, far enough to dislodge Bouchard's hand from its place.

"Ah, yes, that is a mess!" he said aloud. "I hope you will not find it too hard to bear—I shall happily and truthfully swear that all the rest of me is fit to look at."

But it was all for naught, he had gone awry somewhere: Bouchard was frowning at him gravely, stern and unamused. "My concern is not aesthetic, sir," he said.

"Oh, I see," Amaïr said, "you will have the whole ugly story out of me, will you?" He laughed a little, though it was not really funny, and rolled sideways—not far enough to lose all contact with Bouchard, he was too selfish for that, but enough to give himself a little space, to let himself stretch and sigh and clasp his hands at the back of his neck. "Well, more the fool you. It is hardly very interesting, and I am sure you can already guess the shape of it for yourself." He cast a gauging eye over Bouchard. "You are too young to have been in the war, I suppose?"

"Yes," Bouchard said, "a little."

"Well, and I am nearly so myself," Amaïr explained. "But not quite; and in those days the revolutionaries were only just stirring. 'Twas the war itself that gave them a kick, in the end—Lourguinne had not the sailors to bear up against Caspalia forever, so she took from her core worlds; and from her colonies; and, in time, from us.

"The first time, and the second, and the third, I was still too young. But the last time, near the end of it—I was grown at last, then, and they took me. Pressed me, because they had the need and because it was legal to do it. You can guess, perhaps, why I have as little regard for the emperor's laws as I do."

"I have some inkling," Bouchard agreed softly. "But your back—"

"Oh, come now, sir, you have met me," Amaïr said, and it was a jest and the truth at the same time. "You cannot think I was ever a good match for the imperial navy. I was unruly, insubordinate; I talked too much, or was insolent in my silence; I was too quick, I did not wait for orders, or then again too slow, too lazy—there was a whole great host of charges assembled against my character in time, I assure you, however contradictory. And, as you have determined, my captain disapproved strongly of my conduct."

Bouchard had gone terribly pale. "I am sorry," he said.

Amaïr looked at him sidelong, startled. "And why is that?" he said. "It all happened as it had to, surely. You must not let carnal pleasures addle you, Bouchard, however superlative; I was wretched by the end of it, unbearable, insufferable. You would have taken the lash to me yourself, if you had been there—"

"Never," Bouchard said sharply, looking almost angry.

"And you are so sure of that?" Amaïr said, bewildered. Yet again, Bouchard was incomprehensible: with his all-abiding love of gentlemanly conduct, his insistence on obedience to law and regulation—refusing any prize off _Aljana_ as he had, and so on—he should not have hesitated a moment in agreeing that a navy captain might punish sailors any number of ways, especially in wartime. "There cannot be a navy without orders, and sailors who will follow them. My old captain—ah, you should have seen him! The navy incarnate: I am not certain he removed the uniform even to sleep, nor indeed that it could be removed at all."

But Bouchard did not laugh. He retained a strange pale look about the face; and then he swallowed and set his jaw stubbornly and said, "It is not a navy that requires orders, but the operation of a ship; and you know that as well as any Lourguinnais captain, or _Aljana_ would have foundered long ago. Orders were not responsible for this," and as he said it he reached out and trailed a careful hand over Amaïr's shoulder, and across the overlapping flared ends of the scars there. "Though—though the navy may have been," he added, very low, with a pained little twist to one corner of his mouth.

"Why, you sound as if you think my old captain in the wrong," Amaïr marveled. "How can that be? You can see for yourself what has become of me: I am a pirate, after all. I am a thief and a liar and a killer—of course I do not like to do it, Bouchard, I was at least honest about that, but it does happen now and then. I have no loyalty to anything, to my home or my world, to my erstwhile emperor, blessed may he reign; I care for nothing; I regret nothing—"

It should have been a simple declaration of fact. He could not account for the increasing loudness of his voice, the accelerating speed with which the words spilled from him; nor for the incongruous gentleness with which Bouchard regarded him.

"So you like to tell me," Bouchard said softly. "But, as you say, you are a pirate, and a thief, and a liar; so perhaps it would be wisest if I did not believe you."

Amaïr laughed at him, and the laugh came out strange and unsteady. "You are—you are addled again, sir, and I have told you I will not have that."

"Ah, and see: I do understand insubordination," Bouchard murmured. "For here you have given an order I shall not follow, my captain." And, so saying, he hooked his arm round Amaïr's bare and ruined shoulders and kissed him soundly.

Which seemed far too easy, given that it was Bouchard; and once Amaïr had broken away and caught his breath, he said as much. As if all it should take was the knowledge that Amaïr had bled once upon a time to make him abruptly immaculate in Bouchard's eyes—

"No," said Bouchard at once, "no, that is not it at all. I thought from the beginning that you were able and clever and brave—when you pulled me from the _Audacieux_ , and cared for me; and then I thought myself mistaken, when you spoke so callously of matters you ought not, and were so dismissive."

"I did tell you the truth, then," Amaïr told him, interrupting. "That I understood your circumstances, and better than you realised. When I was aboard the _Couronne_ —I wished with all my strength for an end to it, and—"

"And one came," Bouchard said.

Amaïr closed his eyes. "It was wrecked," he said. "I was not in an airlock; I had been sent out on the hull. I thought sure I would be crushed, but—but it did not happen. They all died. But not me."

"Then you were saved?"

And that, at last, was a thought Amaïr could smile over. "Guellec," he said. "She has always had a sharp eye—she sighted my beacon, as she sighted yours. She is Brizon, you know; Lourguinnais officers, as a rule, liked her no better than they liked me. But the two of us together could turn a crew if we put our minds to it, and—" He motioned about them vaguely, at the captain's cabin and at _Aljana_ herself, humming comfortingly about them.

"Yes," said Bouchard. He paused a moment; and then he went on in an odd gentle tone, sober without being severe: "And there you have it: I was right after all. You are a good and capable man, and a better sailor, and a fine captain. I felt it was a waste, that you should do so little with yourself, that you should have become such a pale and sorry shadow of all you could have been—I did not understand."

Amaïr felt a bright selfish pride catch fire in him at that; at hearing Bouchard say it, Bouchard whose good opinion had at first seemed so entirely out of reach. He _was_ addled, almost certainly—that, or Amaïr had been right to guess at a head injury of some sort or another. But Amaïr could not turn this thought into the bracing dash of icewater it should have been. He lay there, bare-chested, and let Bouchard kiss him again, and again; he let himself run his hands through Bouchard's glorious hair, and stare into his glorious face; and he was warm and glad and—and _satisfied_ , and for once could not talk himself out of any of it.

 

 

*

 

 

They could not go on that way forever, of course; Amaïr had to leave his bunk again sooner or later. He tried with all his might to make it later, to as great a degree as possible. But _Aljana_ had not got through the gravity-swell perfectly undamaged, and there was, alas, work to be done.

It was not that he felt no sense of foreboding at all. It could not last; he knew it could not; Bouchard would be away as soon he had anywhere to be away to that was not endless fathoms of fluvium, and there was nothing to be done about it—and nothing that _needed_ doing about it either, for that matter. They would enjoy themselves while they were able, and that must suffice.

But it was difficult to keep this cheerless reality in mind when he had Bouchard before him. To think he had once been certain a single night would serve! How far superior, to tug Bouchard aside here and there between decks and kiss him; how gratifying, to feel his breath come fast, to invent ever sweeter and more ludicrous endearments to call him by—to see him smile, flushed and pleased, and be followed all the rest of the shift by the warm steady weight of his gaze.

So: Amaïr had some presentiment of unhappiness, some reason to suppose he had not found lasting paradise. But it was all too easily set aside, and could not have prepared him for Delsarte.

His first thought at the sound of the hatch-chime was naturally for Bouchard—but sense reasserted itself: Bouchard had the watch and would for some time yet; it could not be him. Amaïr laughed at himself and shook his head, and said aloud, "Enter, by all means."

He did not frown when he saw it was Delsarte. The man was a perfectly competent sailor, and it was not as though it were difficult to draw Bouchard's ire; Amaïr could hardly dislike him for it.

But as Delsarte stepped in through the hatch-way, there was some look to his face, some devilish smug light behind his eyes, that made Amaïr feel at once as though he was up to no good—as though whatever pleased him must necessarily come at the cost of another's misfortune.

"Begging your pardon, Captain," said Delsarte, inclining his head, "only I—I saw Bouchard drop this, and I thought you ought to see it, sir."

Almost certainly a lie; whatever it was, it might well be Bouchard's, but Amaïr suspected it had been obtained not through conscientious observation but because Delsarte had waited 'til Bouchard was on deck and then had gone through his things. He was about to say as much, and to tell Delsarte that even if it were proof of some wrongdoing on Bouchard's part, he would not escape punishment himself for theft—and then his eyes fell upon the data-chip in Delsarte's hand, and he was silenced before he had begun.

"If you would please fetch Bouchard for me, Delsarte," he said, taking it, "and bring him here."

"Aye, sir," Delsarte said, with rather too much enthusiasm, and went.

Amaïr had recognised the seal embossed on the side of the chip, as Delsarte undoubtedly had; the contents were almost secondary. But, driven by a distant and morbid curiosity, Amaïr inserted the thing into the slot at the side of the captain's table anyway.

He was still looking over the resulting data-projection, flicking through the list of files with cool systematic interest, when Delsarte returned with Bouchard. Who looked immediately at the blue-white light-shapes emanating from the table's projective surface, the slowly-rotating model of the _Audacieux_ that hung there, and immediately came to attention in that square-shouldered way he had.

As if he were a navy man, Amaïr recalled thinking, and nearly laughed.

"I had Delsarte bring you with the idea I had better talk to you," he said aloud, very evenly, "but perhaps there is not much needs saying. Hmm?"

Bouchard did not apologise, did not grimace or begin to make excuses—which was best, as Amaïr might not have been able to keep from striking him across the face otherwise.

"It is mine, and what it seems to be," he said quietly. "But I think you know that already, sir. You know, too, how the Lourguinnais navy prefers its records kept; that in anticipation of the possibility of any ship's wreckage or loss, it is deemed necessary to secure data-chips with the full ship's complement and—"

"You think rightly," Amaïr snapped, "and yet insist on telling me what you have decided I already know."

"I knew there would be one within my suit, sir," Bouchard said, without further ado. "I pried it free. I did not—I did not think it would end well for me if Dr. Belcasim were to find it, sir."

And the worst part of all, Amaïr thought, was that Bouchard was right. If Belcasim had found the data-chip, they would have known at once that _Audacieux_ was no merchantman. With the emperor's own seal blazed upon the surface, the names of each crewmember listed by naval rank—no deck apprentices to be seen, only midshipmen—there would have been no uncertainty. And what might Bouchard have expected? That they would kill him right there, two Jaziri pirates in a room full of laser scalpels; that Amaïr would roll him under one boot all the way back to the airlock, and pump it full, and watch him drown.

It was only reasonable that Bouchard should have hidden the chip. It was only reasonable that he should have lied. Amaïr was not entitled to Bouchard's trust or honesty—was not even now, and certainly had not been then. It would be the dizziest height of foolishness to be pained by it; to be angry; to feel stabbed deep through the gut of himself at the thought that but for Delsarte Bouchard might have never breathed a word of it, not _ever_ —

"Well," Amaïr said aloud, and smiled at Bouchard without the least amusement. "The dictates of honour, principle, and conscience are no match for the dictates of self-interest; hardly a surprise, I suppose."

Bouchard did not flinch; but he went very pale and grim, and his mouth very flat.

"It does explain a great deal," Amaïr mused. "Little wonder you did not like that I should think of picking the _Audacieux_ clean, when there was surely a great deal of evidence there that would put the lie to your—"

"No!" Bouchard said, jerking a half-step out of place as though it had been torn from him; and then he caught himself and resumed position just as before, eyes carefully lowered. "No, sir—sir, I had not thought that far. It was their final resting place, and I thought—"

"As if I might under any circumstances be inclined to take your word for it," Amaïr observed softly, still smiling, and Bouchard went silent at once.

Amaïr remained where he was at the captain's table, looking a little further through the files from the _Audacieux_ —there was nothing confidential or valuable in them, of course, only such records as were likely public already; to help identify any sailor found adrift, or to provide some clue as to the fate of a ship, if some poor soul with a chip were to snag on a sail-arm or a fin; that was all. After a little while he glanced up and said absently, "Oh, Delsarte—thank you, you may go."

A look flashed across Delsarte's face that said he had perhaps been hoping for a more effusive expression of gratitude; but he did not hesitate to take what had been offered to him, to duck his head and murmur acknowledgment and then turn and go out the hatch-way.

"As for you, Bouchard," Amaïr said, still studying the data projection with a deliberate eye, "it may have crossed your mind that I might kill you."

"As you say, sir," Bouchard said, very low, without looking up.

"Well, as I have mentioned, I do not care for the navy," and this Amaïr let come out very dry indeed. "Nor they for me; and while they would not be pleased with me for murdering deck apprentices, I suspect they would be more irate still were it to come to light that I had stolen away and slaughtered one of their very own middies.

"Of course I cannot have you signaling some patrol vessel, either, so I am afraid you will not be permitted to continue as you have been. You shall go to the brig, Bouchard, and stay there; but you shall be comfortable enough in there, and safe, until we come to a breach-gate. I shall keep my end of our bargain, you see," Amaïr added, pointed and more than a little vicious, "though you may not keep yours."

"Aye, sir," Bouchard said, as though it were an order; as though, if left to his own devices, he would salute and go out and march directly to the brig to lock himself in.

"Oh?" said Amaïr, prodding. He could not help himself, it was—he did not even know what he wanted from Bouchard, only that he had not got it and that the lack felt cruel and deliberate, as if Bouchard were calculatedly withholding—what? Tears? Rage? The cold disdain he surely must feel at being judged for his conduct by Amaïr; or perhaps a glorious heartrending show of remorse and despair, which Amaïr might then have the satisfaction of righteously rejecting.

Any of these would be acceptable, or all in their turn, if only Bouchard would do _something_ , something that might acknowledge that for once Amaïr had the better of him, damn it all—

"Oh?" Amaïr repeated, and came round the side of the table, the better to tilt his head at Bouchard inquiringly. "'Aye, sir,' and you are done? Against this, of all things—your punishment—you will put forward no argument?"

"Indeed, sir," Bouchard said quietly, and looked up and met Amaïr's eyes at last. "For I should only like to argue if I thought you in the wrong."

And there it was: everything Amaïr could have asked for—and yet none of it; nothing he wanted in the least. The fierce and sustaining anger that had been burning in him flickered and snuffed itself out, and left behind nothing useful, only dull blackened regret lying pitiful amidst the ashes. Amaïr turned and set his hands against the edge of the table, steadying, and then lifted one at last to his comm to call Guellec.

 

 

*

 

 

It had been nearer the end of a watch than not, when Delsarte had come. The next began with Amaïr stalking grimly to the main deck, and a full eight bells passed and no relief: Guellec had come back up from the brig and was treating Amaïr in the quiet careful way he hated, and all the rest of them seemed either to have heard some news of Bouchard or to simply have perceived how the wind was blowing, and were stepping lightly.

And yet however much it grated, Amaïr discovered it was to be preferred to the thought of returning to his cabin: of going in through the hatch-way where Delsarte had passed, where Guellec had come and taken Bouchard out; of taking his seat by the table, the table Bouchard had pressed him up against—

So when the watch was over, Amaïr went nowhere. He stayed upon the deck for a second, a third, until he lost count of the bells entirely; until the consoles were in danger of swimming together into a blur before his eyes; and yet Bouchard's face hung all the time in his mind, perfectly, damnably clear—

"Sir," Guellec said, catching him by the arm. Amaïr blinked at her. She was gone. Or—or had been gone, these past two watches, and had come back for the fourth.

And, by the look on her face, was not pleased to find him still here.

"Sir," she said again, low but firm. "Sir, please—give me the deck."

"As if I were not captain, on my own bridge," Amaïr snapped; but it was only pettiness. There was a pressure building behind his eyes, the vague shadow of encroaching fatigue, and he knew Guellec was right. If any other sailor had stood so many watches at once, Amaïr would have ordered them away—or at least sent them along to Belcasim for a solid dose of stims, if there were some emergency that required them longer.

But there was no emergency; he had no excuse. He gritted his teeth and turned away from Guellec without a word, because if he must give in he could at least fail to acknowledge that he was. Guellec was full familiar with his faults, and would not hold it against him.

Perhaps it had been long enough, he thought as he went. Perhaps he could bear his cabin once again. But when he came up to the hatch-way, he ground to a halt. Even if he had it in him to pass the captain's table without flinching, without wavering—what rest could he hope to find in his bunk, which had so lately been full of Bouchard—

He set his fists against the hatch-door and closed his eyes, pressed his knuckles into the metal until they ached, and then spun on his heel and stalked away.

He did not know where he meant to go, except that it must be somewhere else. He took a long and winding path that led him nearly up to the observation deck before he realised it and veered away; for that too was haunted by the memory of Bouchard.

Perhaps all attempts to escape were doomed to prove futile—and, if so, perhaps some part of Amaïr knew as much, for he found himself drawn closer and closer to the brig. It was not wise, and he was well aware of that. But the nearer he came, the more irresistible the prospect: he _wanted_ to confront Bouchard again; the frustration simmering in his chest demanded as much. He had not—had not _finished_ with Bouchard, was not done with him, required some further satisfaction he could not define.

Of course it was entirely possible that Bouchard slept. This occurred to Amaïr even as he stepped through the brig hatch-way, and for a moment he nearly laughed: to think he had been pacing about the bridge and tormenting himself for hours on end, and that all the while Bouchard might have been lying in the brig and dreaming sweet dreams of the navy!

But he went in and Bouchard was standing, moving restlessly about behind the pale transparent wall of the holding-field—his head snapped up at once when he heard Amaïr come in, and he stepped toward the field and stopped only just short of running into it.

"Captain," he said at once, in a low rough voice; and Amaïr wished it were not a blow to hear him, but that did not make it so.

For it was a blow—to hear him, and to see him. He had not slept at all, not a single bell, to judge by the redness of his eyes, the tense unhappy lines at the corners of his mouth. It pleased Amaïr to notice as much, in a sore bittersweet way, and to be pleased also angered him, because he did not like that anything to do with Bouchard should please him; he did not want to give Bouchard the satisfaction of affecting him even in so small a part as that, and yet he could do nothing to prevent it.

"Captain," Bouchard said again, in a rush, "sir—I did not offer you my apologies, but you must not think I have no regrets. I only—I did not wish to come off insincere, sir. For I cannot rightly swear that I would or could do differently. I was—" and Bouchard stopped and swallowed and looked away. "I was afraid for my life, sir," he said after a moment, much more quietly, "and then—and then for my happiness. I cannot pretend otherwise; I cannot lay claim to virtue or bravery I do not possess. But I am most heartily sorry for it, though I know you have no reason to believe it."

Amaïr could have laughed for the irony of it: that Bouchard should with such exacting forthrightness insist on confessing he possessed the flaw of deceit. But Bouchard had not finished yet.

"It is not right that you should be made to suffer for lapses that were mine—"

"Suffer?" Amaïr said sharply.

And that brought Bouchard's eyes back to him again. "I have caused you pain, sir," he said, very low. "I know I have, and I am—"

How much worse than having been hurt it was, that Bouchard should have perceived it—Amaïr had not thought it possible, but the hot sick swell of shame overpowered all the rest of it for one terrible moment.

"I will thank you to keep your thoughts on the matter to yourself," Amaïr said to him coldly, "unless I have asked for them. I did not come to hear your excuses, nor to offer you absolution."

"I did not ask for it, sir," Bouchard said, mouth flat; and then he bit his lip and shook his head. "No, wait—I did not mean to sound as though I would not be glad of it—only that I could not accept it until I felt it had been earned—"

"Enough," Amaïr cried, and Bouchard fell silent. "As if it were for you to determine! You are bold indeed, upon my word. All must be measured in accordance with your expectations, your standards, and woe betide what fails to meet the mark—"

Bouchard's brows had drawn low, thunderous, as Amaïr spoke, and—of course—he could not hold himself back forever. "Yes, better by far to pretend no worthy standard exists," he burst out, "and to expect nothing—"

"To expect nothing is to be disappointed by nothing," Amaïr told him softly. "To rely on nothing; to be dependent on nothing. It cannot cause me pain to lose what I had no need of."

His tone was light, even; and he flicked his gaze from Bouchard's head to his boots and back again, so there could be no mistaking his meaning. Bouchard stared at him through the holding-field, jaw tight, and said nothing. And they were still locked there, across a distance that would have been impassable even were the holding-field to fail, when Amaïr's comm came alive with a click.

"Sir," said Guellec, "sir—I am sorry to wake you—"

Amaïr raised a hand to his ear and said sharply, "I was not asleep. What is it?"

Guellec's answer was grudging, and delivered in a disapproving tone; but she would not have commed at all if the situation had not merited it one way or another. "It is a man o' war, Captain," she said. "A patrol vessel, Lourguinnais. Nine-core at least."

But it had not sighted them yet; it could not have, or Guellec would have led off with that. "Bring us about," Amaïr said immediately.

"I took the liberty of ordering as much before I commed you, sir," Guellec said. "But I do not know that it was soon enough—if their array is even halfway focused, they will almost certainly sight our wake within the hour."

Amaïr let his eyes fall shut. Nine-core: there would be no outrunning it. And such a particularly unlikely misfortune it was, when they were still so far into f-space! They should not have been at risk of this for some time yet. "We are days from the breach-gate, are we not?"

"Yes, sir," and Guellec allowed an edge of bewilderment to leak into her voice. "I cannot say what it might be after—unless the emperor has declared war again, of course—"

"What is it?" said Bouchard.

Amaïr opened his eyes again, and looked over. Bouchard would be all right, at least. That they had discovered him and secured him would hardly count against him, in the eyes of a Lourguinnais captain.

"You truly are a lucky fellow," Amaïr told him, with half a smile. "You shall fare best of us all."

"Sir," Bouchard said urgently, eyes wide—he reached out and pressed a hand against the holding-field, and did not flinch, though it must have stung. "Sir, what do you mean? What has happened—"

"Why, you are about to be rescued yet again," Amaïr said, and then turned for the hatch-way, already trying to decide how best to do what must be done.

 

 

*

 

 

Speed would avail them nothing: the faster they went, the more prominently their wake would ripple the fluvium, and the Lourguinnais galleon was already more likely to sight them than was comfortable. Such a telltale pattern would only draw attention, and with seven cores to nine, they would never get away cleanly.

And if they were sighted—if they were sighted, better not to draw the matter out. Amaïr had once made something of a sport out of the deliberate frustration of Lourguinnais officers, but that had been when he knew the lash would come down only upon his own shoulders. If they were sighted, capture was inevitable; all that remained to be decided was how it would happen, and the less trouble they made it, the better, surely.

It was a long, tense half-hour upon the bridge, waiting to discover which way the scales might tip. But at last Guellec, at the sensor-glass, let out a breath; and her shoulders dropped in something that might almost be termed a grim relief. "They have sighted us, Captain. They have come round to match our course."

Well. There it was. Amaïr should surely have been dismayed, but all he felt was an odd pervasive calm. The thing was settled; there was nothing to be done but bear it out.

"Very well," he said aloud. "Give the word to Verdier: slow us. We shall come about."

"Sir—"

"Be easy," he said, and he was saying it not only to Guellec but to everyone on deck within earshot. "They are gentler with common sailors in peacetime; they will not rush to make examples of you. I shall do what I can to ensure it."

Which would not be much, for Lourguinne was gentler with common sailors because it had been deemed best to make examples of captains. And Amaïr was a deserter on top of it; he would not fare well at all.

But there was no need to say so.

It was not long before the patrol ship had come within comm range—the _Merveilleuse_ , according to Guellec. Her captain spoke up sharp the moment he realised he had Amaïr, but not to share the great tedious list of criminal charges Amaïr had been expecting.

"I am Captain Roche of the patrol vessel _Merveilleuse_ ," he said instead, brusque. "You are Marouane, are you not?"

"I am," Amaïr said. "Captain Roche—"

"I must take you in, sir," Roche said, "as I am sure you are aware. But first I beg you will tell me if you have seen a ship named _Audacieux_ , for it is of the utmost importance."

Amaïr blinked, and shared a startled glance with Guellec. "I have, Captain Roche," he said slowly. "I am sorry to say she was wrecked."

"Sorry—" Roche said grimly.

"It was not our doing, sir," Amaïr said, "and you shall shortly have our sensor records to confirm, so you need not take my word for it. She was wrecked, and lost with all hands save one."

"One?" Roche said, tone now urgent.

"Indeed, sir," Amaïr told him. "A midshipman—Matéo Bouchard."

"Upon my word," Roche said, and sighed audibly. "Upon my word, Marouane. And you have him?"

"Yes, sir, we do," Amaïr said slowly. "He had a great deal to say upon the subject of loyalty to the flag and the emperor when he determined what ship it was had saved him, and made a great nuisance of himself. He is in the brig—hale and comfortable, and you are welcome to him."

"Upon my word," Roche said again.

Amaïr wanted desperately to ask him what in the world he meant by it; surely, _surely_ , a vessel like the _Merveilleuse_ had never been dispatched to search all f-space for a single lost midshipman?

But there was no reason to think Roche would answer him—less than none if it were a matter of genuine importance to the imperial crown, however baffling that idea might be.

"Well," Roche was saying. "We shall let out a tether, sir, and you shall send a sailor out to link it at your bow and let yourselves be brought in. I cannot say much," he added, as if he knew very well what Amaïr must be thinking, "but you ought to know, Marouane: you are a very lucky fellow."

Amaïr blinked. "Am I?"

"I dare say you are," Roche confirmed, "and you may say so yourself before long."

 

 

*

 

 

It happened just as Roche had said it would: a tether was loosed from the stern of the _Merveilleuse_ and linked up to _Aljana_ 's bow. More a formality than anything, but Verdier had no trouble matching the velocity of the _Merveilleuse_ , which courteously kept below her top nine-core speed.

Roche sent across a party to hold _Aljana_ 's bridge, but of course he could not have them all removed from aboard her—he needed crew enough to sail her to the breach-gate. He came over himself to take Amaïr into custody, and also apparently to see that Bouchard was safely removed; Amaïr was not present for it, but overheard a first lieutenant's report to Roche that Bouchard was indeed in good health, as he was marched to the brig of the _Merveilleuse_.

No doubt Bouchard was greatly pleased. How delighted he must have been, to look up in the brig and see a Lourguinnais uniform coming through the hatch-way, to be set free and escorted safely from _Aljana_ —to be informed that Amaïr had been apprehended without incident and that their positions had been so neatly reversed.

It was a long quiet trip to the nearest breach-gate, in the belly of the _Merveilleuse_ ; of course it could not have been more than a few days, but the hours were grudging with him and dragged their heels. Amaïr felt the passage back to standard space, the distinctive roll in the gut and pop in the ears and a moment's vertigo, with no small relief: it would not be much longer, surely.

As he'd expected, he went from one holding-field box to another; as soon as they'd docked at a spaceport, he was taken directly from the brig of the _Merveilleuse_ to a security cell. He was almost surprised that they were bothering to hold him at all. Surely they might as well space him and have done with it. What were they making him wait in here for? A trial hardly seemed likely—the desertion was a matter of navy record, and very clear-cut, never mind how he had occupied himself since.

So perhaps—perhaps he was only waiting to be joined here by some stone-faced navy doctor with a needle in hand. Or perhaps no one would come in at all; perhaps they would simply flood his little cell with gas. He might not even know it—he might only feel tired, go to sleep, and not wake up. That would not be so bad—

The hatch-way opened, and Amaïr looked up. The needle after all, he thought, and then blinked and realised that was not a doctor's uniform.

"Well, Marouane," said the officer, "I called you a lucky fellow, and even I did not know how true it was."

The voice was familiar, and did not take long to place. "Captain Roche," Amaïr said. "My pleasure."

"You have no idea," Roche said, very dry, and then cleared his throat and took on a more formal tone. "As I am sure you are aware, our treaty with Caspalia ended the war but did not entirely end hostilities; we are yet engaged in the occasional skirmish, particularly in contested regions of f-space. His Imperial Majesty deems it not only legal but right and just to permit certain ships and individuals to carry on activities under commission—"

All at once Amaïr caught the direction of Roche's remarks, and barely managed to prevent his jaw gaping wide in surprise. "No—surely not!"

"Oh, yes, indeed," Roche said. "Even as we speak, I imagine, _Aljana_ 's file readout and official registry data are under alteration to add a letter of marque. You will be expected to limit yourself to Caspiol shipping, if you please, as we have no particular quarrel with Nederduyt or Osmānlī—"

"But _why_?" Amaïr cried, and then with an effort controlled himself. "Begging your pardon, Captain, but I do not understand."

Roche studied him for a moment, through the pale film of the holding-field; and then he uncrossed his arms, murmuring, "I suppose this is no longer necessary, is it?" and reached over to shut the field off. "You really had no idea, did you, Marouane?"

"No idea of what?"

"Precisely whom it was you had aboard," Roche said unhelpfully, still eyeing him with a thoughtful sort of look. "I suppose de Mirazaire had no reason to tell you; he should not have cared to be held for ransom—"

Amaïr went still. "What did you say?"

"Ah, so that caught your attention, did it?" Roche said. "It is still his title, I think, though I imagine its management has passed to one of his sisters. His Imperial Majesty has never formally acknowledged His Highness's enlistment, as I understand it, and so the marquisate de Mirazaire was never revoked."

Amaïr stared at him.

"You had the youngest child of His Imperial Majesty stuffed in your brig, Marouane," Roche said bluntly. "Which might have done you no good at all, for His Highness has been out of his father's favour for years now—but the Dauphine is very fond of her little brother."

 _My father's business takes him traveling often_ , Amaïr thought dimly. Because of course it did: the emperor surely made visits of state to many Lourguinnais worlds, as a matter of ceremony. _My mother and sisters and I—does not care to have a sailor for a son—not in the habit of being displeased_ , and there was an understatement if Amaïr had ever heard one; the direct displeasure of the emperor of Lourguinne was surely avoided when at all possible—

"The prince was never particularly skilled at the task of ornamenting His Imperial Majesty's court in the manner His Imperial Majesty envisioned," Roche was saying, "or at least that is what I have heard said—that he did not care to feel useless."

 _—to serve to the best of one's ability in a place where one is needed; to be part of something larger, greater; to have a duty and fulfill it, by others working the same—_ no, Amaïr could see it, the state duties delegated to an emperor's fourth child would not have suited Bouchard at all. Little wonder he had preferred the navy, and that he had gone to it under another name; what captain would ever have dared to order the marquis de Mirazaire to stand at attention?

And then he had been wrecked; and Amaïr had found him—had found him and rescued him and sworn at him, shouted at him, had tumbled him and been lied to by him and been cruel to him for it, and now—

Now Bouchard, who was not actually Bouchard, had rescued Amaïr in his turn. What other word was there for it? Bouchard had had only to hold his tongue, and Amaïr would have been dealt with as any other pirate; but instead Amaïr would live and would be given back _Aljana_ and all his crew, and be free to carry on as he liked. It was a gift of such immensity as to be barely comprehensible. And Bouchard's father did not love him—it could not have been easily done; if the cost to Bouchard were in any sort of proportion to the value—

He had lost all grip upon his anger, or it had lost its grip on him: it had been swept away, and in its place there was only the certainty that he must not let this happen. That Bouchard should do him such a kindness and suffer for it—for all love, it was not to be borne. Whatever price it was that Bouchard meant to pay, if Amaïr could prevent it then he must; because—because—

Because Bouchard was precious to him, dear beyond all measuring, and Amaïr could not bear that he should be unhappy.

"Captain," he heard himself say, "Captain, if you please—what has become of the prince? Surely His Imperial Majesty will not let him slip away to the navy again."

"Oh, certainly not," Roche agreed. "I was ordered to give him over to an imperial escort, and I am sure they have already left port by now. But there will be a record of their transit, no doubt. And, happily, you are now officially a commissioned officer of His Imperial Majesty's—so it is no longer illegal for you to access such a record. See, Marouane? I have told you that you are a lucky fellow."

"Yes," Amaïr said. "I surely am."

 

 

*

 

 

"Verdier is standing ready, sir," Guellec said behind him.

"Excellent," Amaïr said, and did not look away from the console.

The _Intrepida_ had given them quite a chase, but it was almost over; they had her at last, or nearly so. She was, happily, a six-core—a little slimmer than _Aljana_ , it was true, at only sixteen decks, but the advantage was not so great as all that.

Even without the seventh core, which Verdier would fire up on Amaïr's mark. That would be an end to it for certain, at least if the timing was right.

Amaïr leaned forward over the console, eyes narrowing. A little more, just a little more, and he would call it enough—perhaps it was overcautious of him, but they could ill afford to lose the _Intrepida_. Not after all they had gone through to track her down in the first place.

"Now," he said across the comm, when it was time, and he swore he could feel the hum of _Aljana_ 's drives change pitch as the seventh joined the chorus. _Aljana_ leapt forward, almost into the _Intrepida_ 's wake, and within the quarter-hour they would be close enough to board her.

"Boarders, to the airlocks," he said, and nodded to Guellec before he rushed away to suit up himself.

He forced himself to take care with every step, to seal himself into his suit with focus and precision; there was no room for error here. The _Intrepida_ was a prize he would never equal, and he could not leave her capture to anyone but himself.

He heard Guellec give the order for boarding tethers to be shot, and remembered nothing of the trip to the airlock but the sound of his own heart thundering away in his ears. Contact had been made; the magnetic grapples were secure; and he heard himself give the order to proceed with boarding and could not help admiring the steadiness of his own voice.

They slung not only themselves but also a dozen gas-tanks across the tethers, and within five minutes had forced the _Intrepida_ 's airlock and hooked a tank into her ventilation; then Papon overrode the interior valves, and they were in.

"The armory will be just fore of the cargo hold," Guellec said into all their ears, and Amaïr gestured to Papon to take the boarding party where Guellec directed, and then turned himself to look for a path that would take him up a deck or two. A Caspiol six-core like the _Intrepida_ ought to have her guest cabins somewhere in that direction, if he was not mistaken.

The first three he tried were empty, and the fourth held two women who appeared to already have been asleep when the gas had knocked them further unconscious still. But the fifth—Amaïr pried the hatch-way open and laughed, pleased, and then knelt down and unhooked the spare breather mask he'd been carrying at his hip, and carefully eased it over Bouchard's face.

It did not take Bouchard long to come round; Amaïr had barely counted to twenty when those glorious eyes fluttered open.

"Why, hello," Amaïr murmured.

Bouchard stared up at him, blinking, and then all at once raised his hand to the breather mask and sat up, so quickly Amaïr had to jerk back to avoid injury to either one of them. "What—Amaïr," Bouchard said. "You—what are _you_ doing here?"

"What a pleasure it is to see you, as well," Amair said pointedly. "You told me your father did not like you, my dear, but I begin to think you understated the matter. Appointing you as interim ambassador to the Caspiol court, at a time like this? Is he _hoping_ you'll be assassinated?"

Bouchard gaped at him, an endearing sort of flush blooming along the length of those wonderfully fine cheekbones. "You—I—His Imperial Majesty does what he believes is best," Bouchard managed, and then swallowed and looked away. "It is—it is an honour to be trusted with—"

"Mmhmm. How long did the last one make it?" Amaïr asked, conversational. "Six months?"

"Seven," Bouchard said, lifting his chin. "And officially he is still listed as missing; we have not been sent a body."

"I see," Amaïr said. "So the emperor was very angry with you indeed."

"I think he would have preferred to simply mount my head on a pike," Bouchard said blankly, "but Sophie would not have allowed it—that is to say, the Dauphine," and then he seemed to shake himself a little and added, "But, Amaïr—sir—I do not understand—"

"I was confused myself, at first," Amaïr said kindly, clapping Bouchard on the shoulder with a comforting hand. "After all, anyone with my crimes to their name, captured by a Lourguinnais patrol vessel, should certainly expect the worst. But it appears someone intervened on my behalf: for instead I was set free, and issued a letter of marque besides. I may raid Caspiol shipping routes without penalty—at least so long as the Caspiol navy does not catch me at it, that is—and if I should happen across a Caspiol vessel and keep pace with it, and snare it, and board it, why," and here he gentled the grip of his fingers upon Bouchard's shoulder, "I may help myself to anything it carries that suits my liking."

Bouchard gaped at him; and then his eyes narrowed, a glimmer of comprehension dawning. "You knew this was the ship assigned to convey me to my post? But however did you find out?"

Amaïr shrugged one shoulder. "I am a thief," he said softly, "and a liar, and a pirate. I have my ways."

"A privateer," Bouchard corrected absently, and then shook himself again. "But I—surely you must see I cannot let you," he said, which was a sentiment somewhat at odds with the hand he had wrapped tightly round Amaïr's arm. "I am—I have a duty I must carry out—"

"Matéo," Amaïr said, gentle, and Bouchard fell silent, eyes wide. "Matéo, you may fool yourself if you like, but please do not think you can fool me so easily. There is nothing to be gained by going through with this; no honour to be salvaged, no principle to be served, no matter of conscience at stake. You will be trapped on a hostile world, alone, without useful employment of any kind, until some Caspiol noble or other succeeds in having you killed. And think how very pleased your father will be, I am sure, for the excuse to declare war all anew."

And Bouchard swallowed hard, and did not argue; he closed his eyes, and his mouth twisted in that bitter way Amaïr hated. "Yes, very well, you are right: and what of it? You will do me the favour of spiriting me safely away, and for that I thank you—and where shall you take me? What shall I do? Where shall I go—"

"For all love!" Amaïr said, and shook him a little. "I have told you full well, Bouchard, and you cannot have forgotten: I am a selfish and petulant man, and do not dispense favours so freely as that."

Bouchard's eyes had leapt open again at the shaking, and he had tightened his grip on Amaïr's wrist and had begun to frown sternly, to open his mouth and let fly some objection—he stopped short.

"You see," Amaïr began, and then faltered; his heart was climbing up his throat. Why was it so hard to say? Surely Bouchard must know full well already—but then they had such a gift for misunderstanding each other that Amaïr supposed he had best be as clear as he could. "You see, I know of a captain who—who has need of you, and very much so."

And Bouchard gazed at him searchingly, as if he did not believe it—as if he were afraid to.

"Please," Amaïr said, very low. "I know there is a great deal left to be sorted out between us, my dear, and we shall have it all out at length, we shall—we shall probably shout at each other for three or four bells at least before we are through it, but I—only come with me, and there will be time for it all afterward. Come and sail away with me, Matéo—"

"Yes," Matéo said, interrupting him. "Yes—yes, I—yes," and he smiled fit to blind them both, put his hand over Amaïr's on his shoulder, and did not let go.

 

 


End file.
